There is one other person of whom passing mention should be
made, if for no other reason than because his name will appear
from time to time in this narrative. I take pleasure, therefore, in
introducing you to M. Marcel Roos, the young Belgian gentleman
who drove my motor-car. When war was declared, Roos, who
belonged to the jeunesse doree of Brussels, gave his own ninety
horse-power car to the Government and enlisted in a regiment of
grenadiers. Because he was as familiar with the highways and
byways of Belgium as a housewife is with her kitchen, and because
he spoke English, French, Flemish and German, he was detailed to
drive the car which the Belgian Government placed at my disposal.
He was as big and loyal and good-natured as a St. Bernard dog and
he was as cool in danger as Thompson--which is the highest
compliment I can pay him. Incidentally, he was the most successful
forager that I have ever seen; more than once, in villages which had
apparently been swept clean of everything edible by the Belgians or
the Germans, he produced quite an excellent dinner as mysteriously
as a conjuror produces rabbits from a hat.

Now you must bear in mind that although one could get into
Antwerp with comparative ease, it by no means followed that one
could get out to the firing-line. A long procession of correspondents
came to Antwerp and remained a day or so and then went away
again without once getting beyond the city gates. Even if one
succeeded in obtaining the necessary laisser-passer from the
military Government, there was no way of reaching the front, as all
the automobiles and all except the most decrepit horses had been
requisitioned for the use of the army. There was, you understand,
no such thing as hiring an automobile, or even buying one. Even the