The newspaper men said that “refugee stuff” was already stale; eviction and misery were stale.  Was Calais to be saved?  That was the only question.  If the Germans came, one thought that madame at the hotel would still be at her desk, unruffled, businesslike, and she would still serve an excellent salad for dejeuner; the fishermen would still go to sea for their daily catch.

What was going to happen?  What might not happen?  It was human helplessness to the last degree for all behind the wrestlers.  Fate was in the battle-line.  There could be no resisting that fate.  If the Germans came, they came.  Belgian staff officers with their high-crowned, gilt-braided caps went flying by in their cars.  There always seemed a great many Belgian staff officers back of the Belgian army in the restaurants and cafes.  Habit is strong, even in war.  They did not often miss their dejeuners.  On the Dixmude line all that remained of the active Belgian army was in a death struggle in the rain and mud.  To these “schipperkes” honour without stint, as to their gallant king.

Slightly-wounded Belgians and Belgian stragglers roamed the streets of Calais.  Some had a few belongings wrapped up in handkerchiefs.  Others had only the clothes they wore.  Yet they were cheerful; this was the amazing thing.  They moved about, laughing and chatting in groups.  Perhaps this was the best way.  Possibly relief at being out of the hell at the front was the only emotion they could feel.  But their cheerfulness was none the less a dash of sunlight for Calais.

The French were grim.  They were still polite; they went on with their work.  No unwounded French soldiers were to be seen, except the old Territorials guarding the railroad and the highways.  The military organization of France, which knew what war meant and had expected war, had drawn every man to his place and held him there with the inexorable hand of military and racial discipline.  Calais had never considered caring for wounded, and the wounded poured in.  I saw a motor-car with a wounded man stop at a crowded corner, in the midst of refugees and soldiers; a doctor was leaning over him, and he died whilst the car waited.

But the journalists were saying that stories of wounded men were likewise stale.  So they were, for Europe was red with wounded.  Train after train brought in its load from the front, and Calais tried to care for them.  At least, it had buildings which would give shelter from the rain.  On the floor of a railway freight shed the wounded lay in long rows, with just enough space between them to make an alley.  Those in the row against one of the walls were German prisoners.  Their green uniforms melted into the stone of the wall and did not show the mud stains.  Two slightly wounded had their heads together whispering.  They were helplessly tired, though not as tired as most of the others, those two stalwart young men; but they seemed to be relieved, almost happy.  It did not matter what happened to them, now, so long as they could rest.