departing to the front. In the early days of the war, a refugee train
arrived one afternoon full of helpless French folk, mainly of course women
and children, and old people, turned out of their homes by the German
advance. In general, the refugees were looked after by the French Red
Cross, "who did it admirably, going along the trains with hot drinks and
food and clothing." But on this occasion there were a number of small
children, and some of them got overlooked in the hubbub. "I found a raw
young Scotchman, little more than a boy, from one of the Highland
regiments," with six youngsters clinging to him, for whom he peremptorily
demanded tea. "He had tears in his eyes, and his voice was all husky as he
explained in homely Scotch how the bairns had been turned out of their
homes--how he _couldn't_ bear it--and he would give them tea." A table
was found. "I provided the milk, and he paid for bread and butter and
chocolate, and waited on and talked to the six little French people
himself. Strange to say, they seemed to understand each other quite well."


III

It was with this railway-station canteen that my latest memories of the
great base are concerned. All the afternoon of our second day at ---- was
spent in seeing a fine Red Cross hospital, and then in walking or driving
round the endless reinforcement and hospital camps in the open country.
Everywhere the same vigourous expanding organisation, the same ceaselessly
growing numbers, the same humanity and care in detail. "How many years
have we been at war?" one tends to ask oneself in bewilderment, as the
spectacle unrolls itself. "Is it possible that all this is the work of
eighteen months?" And I am reminded of the Scotch sergeant's reply to his
German captive, who asked his opinion about the duration of the war. "I'll
tell you what--it's the furrst five years that'll be the worst!" We