The right flank of the 13th has been badly turned.

      Most of our officers have been killed.

      Some companies of the K.O.S.B. are endeavouring to cover
     our retreat.

We viciously smashed all the telegraph instruments in the office and cut all the wires.  It took me some time to pack up my kit and tie it on my carrier.  When I had finished, everybody had gone.  I could hear their horses clattering up the street.  Across the way Nadine stood weeping.  A few women with glazed, resigned eyes, stood listlessly round her.  Behind me, I heard the first shell crash dully into the far end of the town.  It seemed to me I could not just go off.  So I went across to Nadine and muttered “Nous reviendrons, Mademoiselle.”  But she would not look at me, so I jumped on my bicycle, and with a last glance round at the wrecked, deserted station, I rode off, shouting to encourage more myself than the others, “Ca va bien.”

I caught up the General, and passed him to ride on ahead of the Signal Company.  Never before had I so wished my engine to turn more slowly.  It seemed a shame that we motor-cyclists should head the retreat of our little column.  I could not understand how the men could laugh and joke.  It was blasphemous.  They ought to be cursing with angry faces,—­at the least, to be grave and sorrowful.

I was told that Divisional Headquarters would be established at Villers-Pol, a little country village about ten miles west of Bavai and eight miles south-east of Valenciennes.  I rode to St Waast, a few miles out of Bavai, and, finding there a cavalry colonel (of the 2nd Life Guards, I think), gave him all the news.  I hurried on to Jenlain, thinking I might be of some use to the troops on our right flank, but Jenlain was peaceful and empty.  So I cut across low rolling downs to Villers-Pol.  There was nobody there when I arrived.  The sun was shining very brightly.  Old women were sleeping at the doors; children were playing lazily on the road.  Soon one or two motor-cyclists dribbled in, and about an hour later a section of the Signal Company arrived after a risky dash along country lanes.  They outspanned, and we, as always, made for the inn.

There was a mother in the big room.  She was a handsome little woman of about twenty-four.  Her husband was at the war.  She asked me why we had come to Villers-Pol.  I said we were retreating a little—­pour attaquer le mieux—­un mouvement strategique.  She wept bitterly and loudly, “Ah, my baby, what will they do to us?  They will kill you, and they will ill-treat me so that never again shall I be able to look my husband in the eyes—­his brave eyes; but now perhaps they are closed in death!” There was an older, harsh-featured woman who rated the mother for her silliness, and, while we ate our omelette, the room was filled with the clamour of them until a dog outside began to howl.  Then the mother went and sat down in a chair by the fire and stopped crying, but every now and then moaned and clasped her baby strongly to her breast, murmuring, “My poor baby, my poor baby, what shall we do?”