One of the Stobart nurses, who had used the remains of the hay as a pillow, had been awake all night trying to prevent a hungry horse from eating her hair along with the hay.  With determination she had donned a Balaklava helmet and trudged along all day in it, even later when the sun came out.  Blease, too, started the chillsome dawn in a Balaklava wearing shawlwise a rug that had been made of bits of various coloured woollen scarfs.  Jan used as a protection from the rain Jo’s white mackintosh apron filleted round his head with a bit of string and dangling behind with a profusion of tapes and fasteners.

Under his khaki great-coat and about a foot longer he wore a white jaconet hospital coat.  Jo had a pair of roomy ski boots into which she had fitted two pairs of stockings; one had been knitted for her by a Serbian girl, and they were so thick and hard that no suspender would hold them up, so they stood, concertinawise, over the boots.  One of our drivers, a witch-faced old man, had a dark red cloak with a peaked hood; and West having lost his hat had donned a Serbian soldier’s cap, which he was taking away as a curiosity.  His arm was giving him pain.  It was very red and inflamed and no one knew what was the matter with it.

We travelled for an hour or so, and then everything on the road came to a standstill—­something was in the way.  Half an hour passed, nothing was done.  Several miles of drivers were talking, gesticulating, and blaspheming; so Jan took on the job of traffic superintendent, and after a time, with a little backing here and twisting there, the problem was solved and we moved on.  Still no hay stations could be found, and we were also hungry, having had no breakfast.  We passed a mound covered with thousands of Austrian prisoners waking up in the twilight.  Another hill was black with boys.  Still no station.  Then we saw some haystacks being taken to pieces by various drivers.  Our ten coachmen ran to the stacks and came back with loads of hay which they packed in the carts.  In five minutes the haystacks existed no more.

“Better not leave that good hay for the Swobs,” said the corporal, as he whipped up the horses.  We passed a dressing-station.  It was a sort of laager of ox carts over which flew the red cross.  Wounded soldiers were sitting and lying on the grass everywhere, while doctors and nurses were hurrying to and fro with bandages and lint.

Water was difficult to find.  At last we stopped at the top of a hill in a furious wind.  The water which we got from a stream looked filthy, but we boiled it thoroughly in a biscuit tin, and Angelo again presided over a magnificent curry filled with bully beef, while we hit our toes on the ground to keep warm.  A wounded soldier was brought up by a friend.  He had not been attended to for days, and we did the best we could for him.