By now, no doubt, they have been moved up and there has been something doing.  Poor lads!  I watched them until even their khaki-coloured tents had faded into the haze.  The tall, blonde, young officer, Lieutenant Puaux, pointed out to me a detachment of Belgian soldiers mending roads.  As our car passed they leaned on their spades and looked after us.

“Belgian carabineers,” he said.  “They did some of the most heroic work of the war last summer and autumn.  They were decorated by the King.  Now they are worn out and they mend roads!”

For—­and this I had to learn—­a man may not fight always, even although he escapes actual injury.  It is the greatest problem of commanding generals that they must be always moving forward fresh troops.  The human element counts for much in any army.  Nerves go after a time.  The constant noise of the guns has sent men mad.

More than ever, in this new warfare, is the problem serious.  For days the men suffer not only the enemy’s guns but the roar of their own batteries from behind them.  They cannot always tell which side they hear.  Their tortured ears ache with listening.  And when they charge and capture an outpost it is not always certain that they will escape their own guns.  In one tragic instance that I know of this happened.

The route was by way of Poperinghe, with its narrow, crowded streets, its fresh troops just arrived and waiting patiently, heavy packs beside them, for orders.  In Poperinghe are found all the troops of the Allies:  British, Belgian, French, Hindus, Cingalese, Algerians, Moroccans.  Its streets are a series of colourful pictures, of quaint uniforms, of a babel of tongues, of that minor confusion that is order on a great scale.  The inevitable guns rumbled along with six horses and three drivers:  a lead driver, a centre driver and wheel driver.  Unlike the British guns, there are generally no gunners with the guns, but only an officer or two.  The gunners go ahead on foot.  Lines of hussars rode by, making their way slowly round a train of British Red-Cross ambulances.

At Elverdingue I was to see the men in their billets.  Elverdingue was another Poperinghe—­the same crowds of soldiers, the same confusion, only perhaps more emphasised, for Elverdingue is very near the front, between Poperinghe and Ypres and a little to the north, where the line that curves out about Ypres bends back again.

More guns, more hussars.  It was difficult to walk across the narrow streets.  We watched our chance and broke through at last, going into a house at random.  As each house had soldiers billeted in it, it was certain we would find some, and I was to see not selected quarters but billets chosen at random.  Through a narrow, whitewashed centre hall, with men in the rooms on either side, and through a muddy kitchen, where the usual family was huddled round a stove, we went into a tiny, brick-paved yard.  Here was a shed, a roof only, which still held what remained of the winter’s supply of coal.