To accomplish the journey in greater comfort, Vee and her hut companion Sadie got hold of a perfectly good Colonel man who had a perfectly good car and had, moreover, a perfectly good excuse to go to Passchendaele (he was really going to Boulogne), but wanted to get a good flying start, and we set off.  We were a perfectly organised unit, consisting of four sections (including two No. 2 Brownie Sections), A.S.C. complement (one lunch basket), Aid Post (bandage and thermometer, carried as a matter of course by Sadie, who thinks of these things), a Scotch dog (mascot) and a flask of similar nationality (medical comforts for the troops).

On our arrival at Ypres the traffic man held up his hand.  That in itself would not have been important, for we have it on great authority that the blind eye may be employed on really special occasions, but the fellow stood determinedly in the middle of the road, and even traffic men, we have always insisted, should not be run over except on great provocation.

“All traffic stopped between 12 and 2,” he said; “the KING is passing by.”

We looked blankly at one another.  I have an extraordinary respect for HIS MAJESTY, but I did wish that he did more of his work by aeroplane at times.

We ate sandwiches, selected and sited positions for sniping the royal progress with our No. 2 Brownies and photographed everything we saw, including an American cooker, the historic “Goldfish Chateau,” and a Belgian leading a little pig, with the inscription, “The only good Bosch in the country”; but on the whole Ypres on a Sunday afternoon is hardly more exciting than the “great commercial centre” of Scotland.

At intervals the Staff dashed up and spoke a word or two to the traffic man, but they departed again and nothing happened.  We all had a turn at that traffic man, and what we don’t know about his home life, pre-war and probable post-war troubles, isn’t worth putting on any demobilisation paper.  And each time we tackled him we got a different idea of the KING’S movements—­HIS MAJESTY must have had an extraordinarily complex journey that day.

Suddenly we were free!  The KING was going to lunch near the Cloth Hall and would not be by till 2.30 P.M.  Knowing that any order emanating from a Staff is liable to instant cancellation we rushed back to the car and told the driver to “Go!” with the “G” hard, as in shell fire.  Whether we went round or over the traffic man I don’t know, but we slid with terrific speed into Ypres.  Traffic was a little congested round the ruined cathedral, and we barged right up against a panting Ford, which had one lung completely gone and the other seemingly a little porous.  A stream of traffic was coming down our side of the road; no matter, we must get on.  Urged on by our advice the driver pulled out from behind the dying Ford and tried to pass.  It was fearfully exciting.  Some Staff on the bank began to wave to us.  Thinking perhaps they