mediæval towers and grey city wall; here our passes were again examined,
and there was a long queue of cars waiting to get through as we drew
up. Once "across the Rubicon" we sped through the town and in time came
to Furnes with its quaint old market place. Already the place was
showing signs of wear and tear. Shell holes in some of the roofs and a
good many broken panes, together with the general air of desertion, all
combined to make us feel we were near the actual fighting line. We
learnt that bombs had been dropped there only that morning. (This was
early in 1915, and since then the place has been reduced to almost
complete ruin.) We sped on, and could see one of the famous coastal
forts on the horizon. So different from what one had always imagined a
fort would look like. "A green hill far away," seems best to describe
it, I think. It wasn't till one looked hard that one could see small
dark splotches that indicated where the cannon were.

A Belgian whom we were "lifting" ("lorry jumping" is now the correct
term!) pointed out to us a huge factory, now in English hands, which had
been owned before the war by a German. Under cover of the so-called
"factory" he had built a secret gun emplacement for a large gun, to
train on this same fort and demolish it when the occasion arose. At this
point we saw the first English soldiers that day in motor boats on the
canal, and what a smile of welcome they gave us!

Presently we came to lines of Belgian Motor transport drawn up at the
sides of the road, car after car, waiting patiently to get on. Without
exaggeration this line was a mile in length, and we simply had to crawl
past, as there was barely room for a large ambulance on that narrow and
excessively muddy road. The drivers were all in excellent spirits, and
nodded and smiled as we passed--occasionally there was an officer's car
sandwiched in between, and those within gravely saluted.