I began to make out of whom our party consists.  There is Lady Dorothy Fielding—­probably 22, but capable of taking command of a ship, and speaking French like a native; Mrs. Decker, an Australian, plucky and efficient; Miss Chisholm, a blue-eyed Scottish girl, with a thick coat strapped around her waist and a haversack slung from her shoulder; a tall American, whose name I do not yet know, whose husband is a journalist; three young surgeons, and Dr. Munro.  It is all so quaint.  The girls rule the company, carry maps and find roads, see about provisions and carry wounded.

We could not get rooms at Dunkirk and so came on to St. Malo les Bains, a small bathing-place which had been shut up for the winter.  The owner of an hotel there opened up some rooms for us and got us some ham and eggs, and the evening ended very cheerily.  Our party seems, to me, amazingly young and unprotected.

St. Malo les Bains. 14 October.—­To-day I took a car into Dunkirk and bought some things, as I have lost nearly all I possess at Antwerp.  In the afternoon I went to the dock to get some letters posted, and tramped about there for a long time.  War is such a disorganizer.  Nothing starts.  No one is able to move because of wounded arms and legs; it seems to make the world helpless and painful.  In minor matters one lives nearly always with damp feet and rather dirty and hungry.  Drains are all choked, and one does not get much sleep.  These are trifles, of course.

[Page Heading:  WOMEN AT THE FRONT]

To-night, as we sat at dinner, a message was brought that a woman outside had been run over and was going to have a baby immediately in a tram-way shelter, so out we went and got one of our ambulances, and a young doctor with his fiancee went off with her.  There was a lot of argument about where the woman lived, until one young man said, “Well, get in somehow, or the baby will have arrived.”  There is a simplicity about these tragic times, and nothing matters but to save people.

15 October.—­To-day we went down to the docks to get a passage for Dr. Munro, who is going home for money.  A German Taube flew overhead and men were firing rifles at it.  An Englishman hit it, and down it came like a shot bird, so that was the end of a brave man, whoever he was, and it was a long drop, too, through the still autumn air.  Guns have begun to fire again, so I suppose we shall have to move on once more.  One does not unpack, and it is dangerous to part with one’s linen to be washed.

Yesterday I heard a man—­a man in a responsible position—­say to a girl, “Tell me, please, how far we are from the firing-line.”  It was one of the most remarkable speeches I ever heard.  I go to these girls for all my news.  Lady Dorothy Fielding is our real commander, and everyone knows it.  One hears on all sides, “Lady Dorothy, can you get us tyres for the ambulances?  Where is the petrol?” “Do you know if the General will let us through?” “Have you