alongside many who had once been their foes, but were now peacefully
neutral.


IV

The housing question in Belgium confronts us with several novel
problems. It is not so easy to billet troops here, especially in the
Salient, as in France. Some of us live in huts, others in tents,
others in dug-outs. Others, more fortunate, are loaded on to a fleet
of motor-buses and whisked off to more civilised dwellings many miles
away. These buses once plied for hire upon the streets of London. Each
bus is in charge of the identical pair of cross-talk comedians who
controlled its destinies in more peaceful days. Strangely attired in
khaki and sheepskin, they salute officers with cheerful _bonhomie_,
and bellow to one another throughout the journey the simple and
primitive jests of their previous incarnation, to the huge delight of
their fares.

The destination-boards and advertisements are no more, for the buses
are painted a neutral green all over; but the conductor is always
ready and willing to tell you what his previous route was.

"That Daimler behind you, sir," he informs you, "is one of the Number
Nineteens. Set you down at the top of Sloane Street many a time, I'll
be bound. Ernie"--this to the driver, along the side of the bus--"you
oughter have slowed down when thet copper waved his little flag: he
wasn't pleased with yer, ole son!" (The "copper" is a military mounted
policeman, controlling the traffic of a little town which lies on our
way to the trenches.) "This is a Number Eight, sir. No, that dent in