There is decided depression when I produce my passport and the Commandant’s papers. They let me pass. I enter the train for Goch and a talkative guard comes to keep me company. He was in charge of the train which has brought many prisoners through—thousands of French and only two English so far. “And very glad the French are to be here out of the fighting. They were all laughing as they came by,” he says. At Goch I fall out. I can afford to sleep here, since I am in safety. And sleep I do in a small wayside hotel. Little old ladies regale me at breakfast with tales of “hideous Belgian atrocities.” I catch a train to Flushing. I hold in my lap all the way a French lady of eighty-six, who has already been seven days in the train. I am desperately afraid she will die in my arms. The rest of the carriage is filled with Japanese fleeing from Germany after their declaration of war. For once I bless their smallness of stature. They curl themselves up on the floor, in corners, on hand-bags. I am sure if need be they would travel quite contented in the rack. I notice their only European language is German. When I address them in French and English they cannot understand. I get on the boat at Flushing. It all seems too good to be true. Two ladies plump down beside me and tell of their “terrible adventures,” in leaving Germany. These harrowing tales resolve themselves into the loss of some pretty frocks. It suddenly occurs to me that I too have lost all my clothes. Somehow the war had seemed more important! The deck is a struggling mass of complacent Americans. The Japanese are so small as to be overlooked. I am the only Britisher. The Yankees survey our greyhound cruisers through their lorgnettes with disrespectful enthusiasm and guess they’re “just sweet.” They are enjoying the war with a delightful air of detachment. I envy them. Even the thought of mines does not disturb their equanimity. American subjects exploded by a mine. Impossible! We arrive at Folkestone. Passports must be shown. Well-dressed Americans crowd the companion-ways into the saloon. Men and women, dressing-cases, floating veils. In between lurk the Japanese like faithful little dogs. Meekly I wait last. A stentorian voice roars out from the saloon. “British subjects first.” My paltry triumph comes. I step briskly forward and lay my passport before the purser’s critical eyes. A moment later I fall ashore, almost into the arms of a stalwart British bobby. Dear sweet soul. I could have kissed him. London again. A hot bath, a good meal, a deep, sound sleep to the hum of Piccadilly traffic, and I am ready to help. War is barbarous, horrible, but there is a sturdy realism about it which is lacking in our slug-slim, civilised life. WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH