Antwerp, with myself, formed the only female contingent on board. It was
asserted that a submarine preceded us all the way to Ostend, but as I
never get further than my berth on these occasions, I cannot vouch for
the truth of this.

Ostend in the middle of August generally means a gay crowd of bathers,
Cook's tourists tripping to Switzerland and so on; but our little party
landed in silence, and anxious faces and ominous whispers met us on our
arrival on Belgian soil. It was even said that the Germans were marching
on Brussels, but this was contradicted afterwards as a sensational
canard. The Red Cross on my luggage got me through the _douane_
formalities without any trouble. I entered the almost empty train and we
went to Brussels without stopping.

At first sight Brussels seemed to be _en fête_, flags were waving from
every window, Boy Scouts were everywhere looking very important, and the
whole population seemed to be in the streets. Nearly every one wore
little coloured flags or ribbons--a favourite badge was the Belgian
colours with the English and French intertwined. It did not seem
possible that war could be so near, and yet if one looked closer one saw
that many of the flags giving such a gay appearance were Red Cross
flags denoting that there an ambulance had been prepared for the
wounded, and the Garde Civile in their picturesque uniform were
constantly breaking up the huge crowds into smaller groups to avoid a
demonstration.

The first thing to arrange was about the coming of my nurses, whether
they were really needed and if so where they were to go. I heard from
the authorities that it was highly probable that Brussels _would_ be
occupied by the Germans, and that it would be best to put off their