The station at ---- quite recovered and tidy after a feeble strafing the
other day. Even two or three civilians travelling. Not many of the
military--a hundred or so, perhaps, all waiting and smoking idly, each
armed with his "Movement Order." The dull boom of guns not excessive,
though there's a frequent "plom! plom! plom!" of the Archies, and the
sky is dotted with clusters of pretty little shrapnel clouds. Sometimes
the crack! crack! crack! crack! of machine guns high up in the blue. It
makes you feel slightly homesick. I don't quite know why. That sort of
thing isn't done at home.

[Sidenote: THROUGH HAZEBROUCK]

In comes the train. The French station officials all in a paroxysm of
excitement because one Tommy throws down a gas helmet for the train to
run over. Up we clamber. Hale heaves up valise and coat and so forth,
and retires to a "third," while I feel a beast lounging in this
luxurious "first." Off we go, and I look out at all the familiar
country.

There's one of those quaint French notices in the carriage:

TAISEZ-VOUS!
MÉFIEZ-VOUS!
LES OREILLES ENNEMIES VOUS ÉCOUTENT!

All too necessary, they tell me.

_Later._--It is getting dark. We stop at a large town that I know well.
Two hours to wait. I turn in to a Follies show. There is usually one
going on, run by this or that division, all soldiers, but looking very