This proved to be the explanation of the battalions we met everywhere, marching briskly along the roads.  I do not recall the British ration now, but it includes, in addition to meat and vegetables, tea, cheese, jam and bacon—­probably not all at once, but giving that variety of diet so lacking to the unfortunate Belgian Army.  Food is one of the principal munitions of war.  No man fights well with an empty stomach.  Food sinks into the background only when it is assured and plentiful.  Deprived of it, its need becomes insistent, an obsession that drives away every other thought.

So the wise British Army feeds its men well, and lets them think of other things, such as war and fighting and love of country and brave deeds.

But food has not always been plentiful in the British Army.  There were times last fall when, what with German artillery bombardment and shifting lines, it was difficult to supply the men.

“My servant,” said the officer, “found a hare somewhere, and in a deserted garden a handful of carrots.  Word came to the trench where I was stationed that at dark that night he would bring out a stew.  We were very hungry and we waited eagerly.  But just as it was cooked and ready a German shell came down the chimney of the house where he was working and blew up stove and stew and everything.  It was one of the greatest disappointments I ever remember.”

We were in Bethune at last—­a crowded town, larger than any I had seen since I left Dunkirk.  So congested were its narrow streets with soldiers, mounted and on foot, and with all the ghastly machinery of war, that a traffic squad had taken charge and was directing things.  On some streets it was possible to go only in one direction.  I looked about for the signs of destruction that had grown so familiar to me, but I saw none.  Evidently the bombardment of Bethune has not yet done much damage.

A squad of artillerymen marched by in perfect step; their faces were keen, bronzed.  They were fine-looking, well-set-up men, as smart as English artillerymen always are.  I watched them as long as I could see them.

We had lost our way, owing to the regulations of the traffic squad.  It was necessary to stop and inquire.  Then at last we crossed a small bridge over the canal, and were on our way along the front, behind the advanced trenches and just in front of the second line.

For a few miles the country was very level.  The firing was on our right, the second line of trenches on our left.  The congestion of Bethune had given way to the extreme peace in daylight of the region just behind the trenches.  There were few wagons, few soldiers.  Nothing could be seen except an occasional cloud where shrapnel had burst.  The British Army was keeping me safe, as it had promised!

There were, however, barbed-wire entanglements everywhere, built, I thought, rather higher than the French.  Roads to the right led to the advanced trenches, empty roads which at night are thronged with men going to the front or coming back.