And if you go on right up to the very trenches themselves you will find that British policeman all the way; directing the traffic at every country cross-road where there is likely to be a congestion of the great lumbering motor-lorries; standing outside the ruined village church which the long-range guns have knocked to pieces in trying to get at a supply dump or a headquarters; waiting at the fork-roads where you finally have to leave your motor-car and walk only in small parties if you wish to avoid sudden death; on point duty at the ruined farmhouses which it is unhealthy at certain hours of the day to pass.  At the corner where you finally turn off the road into the long, deepening communication trench; even at the point where the second line trenches cross the communication trench to the front trenches—­in some cases you find that policeman there also, faithfully telling you the way, incidentally with a very close and critical eye upon you at the same time.

He is simply the British policeman doing his famous old job in his famous old way.  He is mostly the London policeman, but there are policemen from Burnley, from Manchester, from Glasgow amongst them.  And up near the lines you find the policeman from Sydney and Melbourne waving the traffic along with a flag just as he used to do at the corner of Pitt and King Streets.  Just as he used to see that the by-laws of the local council were carried out, so he now has to see to the rules and orders made by the local general.  It is a thankless job generally; but when they get as far as this most people begin to be a little grateful to the policeman.

Our railway train and the policeman had carried us over endless farmlands, through forests, beside rivers, before we noticed, drawn up along the side of a quarter of a mile of road, an endless procession of big grey motor-lorries.  Every one was exactly like the next—­a tall grey hood in front and a long grey tarpaulin behind.  It was the first sign of the front.  Presently a French regiment went by along a country road—­not at all unlike our Australian troops in some ways—­biggish fellows in grey-blue overcoats, all singing a jolly song.  They waved to us in the same light-hearted way Australians have.  There were more fair-haired men, among some of the French troops we have seen, than there would be in one of our own battalions.

After this there came great stores at intervals, and timber yards—­hour after hour of farmhouses and villages where there was a Tommy in every doorway, Tommies in every barn, a Tommy’s khaki jacket showing through every kitchen window; until at last towards evening we reached a country populated by the familiar old pea-soup overcoats and high-necked jackets and slouch hats of Australians.