British reverse was becoming catastrophic. At first I felt a kind of
grimness, and then I was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of
the war might be near. We might not have a good peace, but peace of any
kind was preferable to war. The mendacious Press talked much about a
"dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as
a prolonged war.

But the immediate reality became too overwhelming. Grey multitudes were
sweeping khaki multitudes before them. High-explosives, shrapnel,
grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the
living flesh and muscle and bone. Towns and villages were being turned
into heaps of brick and wreckage. Hordes of old men, women, and children
were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.

We went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now
had something to talk about. Would the Germans reach the coast? If they
did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. A general
retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. We stood in
groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.

One day we were returning from work and passing through the village. A
crowd of civilians was standing round the window of the Mairie, where a
written notice was exposed. An old woman dressed in black was moaning,
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu." The '19, '20, and '21 classes had been
called up.

Then the German advance came to an end. A French army had arrived and
saved the situation. The shelling of the back areas had ceased. The
danger was over for a time.