country cross-road where there is likely to be a congestion of the great
lumbering motor-lorries; standing outside the ruined village church
which the long-range guns have knocked to pieces in trying to get at a
supply dump or a headquarters; waiting at the fork-roads where you
finally have to leave your motor-car and walk only in small parties if
you wish to avoid sudden death; on point duty at the ruined farmhouses
which it is unhealthy at certain hours of the day to pass. At the corner
where you finally turn off the road into the long, deepening
communication trench; even at the point where the second line trenches
cross the communication trench to the front trenches--in some cases you
find that policeman there also, faithfully telling you the way,
incidentally with a very close and critical eye upon you at the same
time.

He is simply the British policeman doing his famous old job in his
famous old way. He is mostly the London policeman, but there are
policemen from Burnley, from Manchester, from Glasgow amongst them. And
up near the lines you find the policeman from Sydney and Melbourne
waving the traffic along with a flag just as he used to do at the corner
of Pitt and King Streets. Just as he used to see that the by-laws of the
local council were carried out, so he now has to see to the rules and
orders made by the local general. It is a thankless job generally; but
when they get as far as this most people begin to be a little grateful
to the policeman.

Our railway train and the policeman had carried us over endless
farmlands, through forests, beside rivers, before we noticed, drawn up
along the side of a quarter of a mile of road, an endless procession of
big grey motor-lorries. Every one was exactly like the next--a tall grey
hood in front and a long grey tarpaulin behind. It was the first sign of