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Meanwhile men with the white brassard and the red Geneva cross were busy out in the open, lending succor to the Russian wounded. The battle seemed to have come to a sudden halt. "But even as I was getting soup, the artillery fusillade broke forth again. From 9 o'clock to noon the Russians hurled their heavy shells at the German trenches and the German guns. The German batteries replied slowly.
He was a magnificent figure of a man six feet three inches in height at least, an officer of dragoons, and he wore the red and white brassard, embroidered in gold with a design of forked lightning, which is the prerogative of the staff. A military car with a driver and an orderly in shaggy furs awaited us outside on the Place de la Concorde.
They may not be under the age before things are over...." He was even prepared to plan uniforms. "A brassard," repeated Mr. Britling, "and perhaps coloured strips on the revers of a coat." "Colours for the counties," said Wilkins, "and if there isn't coloured cloth to be got there's red flannel. Anything is better than leaving the mass of people to mob about...."
From time to time two sailors shift it slightly, retying the ropes which fasten it to the ship's rail. The men on the quay watch the manoeuvre hopefully. At 9 o'clock an officer appears on the outside fringe of the crowd. With a civility which barely cloaks his air of patronage he demands way for himself to the ship. His brassard wins him all he asks at once.
On the tail-board of the ambulance an orderly of the R. A. M. C. balanced himself, gaunt-eyed, unshaven, caked from head to foot in yellow mud, the red cross on his untidy brassard looming faintly from its grimy background.
Or he thought of himself as working at a telephone or in an office engaged upon any useful quasi-administrative work that called for intelligence rather than training. Still, of course, with a "brassard." A month ago he would have had doubts about the meaning of "brassard"; now it seemed to be the very keyword for national organisation.
And as he came, I noticed something odd about him. He limped slightly. His khaki had a battered look; it was soiled and torn in places, and the Red Cross brassard on his sleeve was simply filthy. And he had only been out three days, mind you. He was only three days ahead of us. But he had lost no time.
The soldier from whom his brassard was taken was considered dead. "Guynemer, who was somewhat weak and sickly, always remained a private soldier. His comrades, appreciating the value of having a general with sufficient muscular strength to maintain his authority, never dreamed of placing him at their head. The muscle, which he lacked, was a necessity.
And when I refused to be consulted about her passport, to hear a word about her passport or about her going, she walked straight out of the house into a passing taxi that took her to the Belgian Legation, where she saw that weak-minded secretary that Jevons had handled; and she came back in time for tea, very cheerful and dressed in a sort of khaki uniform she had ordered, with a tunic and knee-breeches and puttees and a Red Cross brassard on her right arm.
Our car stopped with startling abruptness in response to the upraised hand of a giant in khaki whose high-crowned sombrero and the brass letters on his shoulder-straps showed that he was a trooper of the Alberta Horse. On his arm was a red brassard bearing the magic letters M. P. Military Police. "Better not go any farther, sir," he said, addressing the staff-officer who was my companion.
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