ourselves at Furnes in an empty Ecclesiastical College. Nothing was
ready, and everything was in confusion. The wounded from the fighting
near by had not begun to come in, but the infernal sound of the guns was
quite close to us, and gave one the sensation of a blow on the ear.
Night was falling as we came back to Dunkirk to sleep (for no beds were
ready at Furnes), and we passed many motor vehicles of every
description going out to Furnes. Some of them were filled with bread,
and one saw stacks of loaves filling to the roof some once beautifully
appointed motor. Now all was dust and dirt.

All my previous ideas of men marching to war have had a touch of
heroism, crudely expressed by quick-step and smart uniforms. To-day I
see tired dusty men, very hungry looking and unshaved, slogging along,
silent and tired, and ready to lie down whenever chance offers. They
keep as near their convoy as they can, and are keen to stop and cook
something. God! what is heroism? It baffles me.

_22 October. Furnes._--The bulk of our party did not return from Furnes
yesterday, so we gathered that the wounded must be coming in, and we
left Dunkirk early and came here. As I packed my things and rolled my
rugs at 5 a.m. I thought of Mary, and "Charles to fetch down the
luggage," and the fuss at home over my delicate health!

A French officer called Gilbert took us out to Furnes in his Brooklands
racing-car, so that was a bit of an experience too, for we sat curled up
on some luggage, and were told to hang on by something. The roads were
empty and level, the little seats of the car were merely an appendage to
its long big engines. When we got our breath back we asked Gilbert what
his speed had been, and he told us 75 miles an hour.