“In the east,” said the officer with me, “where there is always snow in the winter, the Germans have sent out to their troops white helmet covers and white smocks to cover the uniforms.  But snow is comparatively rare here, and it has not been considered necessary.”

At a small bridge ten miles from Bethune he pointed out a house as marking the farthest advance of the German Army, reached about the eleventh of October.  There was no evidence of the hard fighting that had gone on along this road.  It was a peaceful scene, the black branches of the overarching trees lightly powdered with snow.  But the snowy fields were full of unmarked mounds.  Another year, and the mounds will have sunk to the level of the ground.  Another year, and only history will tell the story of that October of 1914 along the great Bethune road.

An English aeroplane was overhead.  There were armoured cars on the road, going toward the front; top-heavy machines that made surprisingly little noise, considering their weight.  Some had a sort of conning tower at the top.  They looked sombre, menacing.  The driving of these cars over slippery roads must be difficult.  Like the vans, they keep as near the centre of the road as possible, allowing lighter traffic to turn out to pass them.  A van had broken down and was being repaired at one of the wayside repair shops maintained everywhere along the roads for this war of machinery.  Men in khaki with leather aprons were working about it, while the driver stood by, smoking a pipe.

As we went on we encountered the Indian troops again.  The weather was better, and they thronged the roads, driving their tiny carts, cleaning arms and accoutrements in sunny doorways, proud and haughty in appearence even when attending to the most menial duties.  From the little ammunition carts, like toy wagons, they gazed gravely at the car, and at the unheard of spectacle of a woman inside.  Side by side with the Indians were Scots in kilts, making up with cheerful impudence for the Indians’ lack of curiosity.

There were more Ghurkas, carrying rifles and walking lightly beside forage carts driven by British Tommies.  There were hundreds of these carts taking hay to the cavalry divisions.  The Ghurkas looked more Japanese than ever in the clear light.  Their broad-brimmed khaki hats have a strap that goes under the chin.  The strap or their black slanting eyes or perhaps their rather flattened noses and pointed chins give them a look of cruelty that the other Indian troops do not have.  They are hard and relentless fighters, I believe; and they look it.

The conversation in the car turned to the feeding of the army.

“The British Army is exceedingly well fed,” said the young officer.

“In the trenches also?”

“Always.  The men are four days in the trenches and four out.  When the weather is too bad for anything but sniping, the inactivity of the trench life and the abundant ration gets them out of condition.  On their four days in reserve it is necessary to drill them hard to keep them in condition.”