The second afternoon I was in Brussels I received a note from one of my nurses who had been sent to Tirlemont in my absence by the Belgian Red Cross Society.  The contents of the note made me very anxious about her, and I determined to go and see her if possible.  I had some Belgian acquaintances who had come from that direction a few days before, and I went to ask their advice as to how I should set about it.  They told me the best way, though rather the longest, was to go first to Malines and then on to Tirlemont from there, and the only possible way of getting there was to walk, as they had done a few days previously, and trust to getting lifts in carts.  There had been no fighting going on when they had passed, and they thought I should get through all right.

So I set out very early in the morning accompanied by another Sister, carrying a little basket with things for one or two nights.  I did not ask for any laissez-passer, knowing well enough that it would not be granted.  We were lucky enough to get a tram the first part of the way, laden with peasants who had been in to Brussels to sell country produce to the German army, and then we set out on our long walk.  It was a lovely late September morning, and the country looked so peaceful one could hardly believe that a devastating war was going on.  Our way led first through a park, then through a high-banked lane all blue with scabious, and then at last we got on to a main road, when the owner of a potato cart crawling slowly along, most kindly gave us a long lift on our way.

We then walked straight along the Malines road, and I was just remarking to my companion that it was odd we should not have met a single German soldier, when we came into a village that was certainly full of them.  It was about 11 o’clock and apparently their dinner hour, for they were all hurrying out of a door with cans full of appetizing stew in their hands.  They took no notice of us and we walked on, but very soon came to a sandy piece of ground where a good many soldiers were entrenched and where others were busily putting up barbed-wire entanglements.  They looked at us rather curiously but did not stop us, and we went on.  Suddenly we came to a village where a hot skirmish was going on, two Belgian and German outposts had met.  Some mitrailleuses were there in the field beside us, and the sound of rifle fire was crackling in the still autumn air.  There was nothing to do but to go forward, so we went on through the village, and presently saw four German soldiers running up the street.  It is not a pretty sight to see men running away.  These men were livid with terror and gasping with deep breaths as they ran.  One almost brushed against me as he passed, and then stopped for a moment, and I thought he was going to shoot us.  But in a minute they went on towards the barbed-wire barricades and we made our way up the village street.  Bullets were whistling past now, and every one was closing their shops and putting up their shutters.  Several people were taking refuge behind a manure heap, and we went to join them, but the proprietor came out and said we must not stay there as it was dangerous for him.  He advised us to go to the hotel, so we went along the street until we reached it, but it was not a very pleasant walk, as bullets were flying freely and the mitrailleuse never stopped going pom-pom-pom.