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As the evening drew in the train wandered slowly through Lillers and Hazebrouck, vast centres of activity, finally drawing up at Godewaersvelde at 10.45 p.m., whence a weary march ended at dawn at Houtkerque, which, curiously enough, was next door to our first resting place in Flanders, Winnezeele.
The men, sitting around the streets of Bailleul in the sun, looked as if they had seen and experienced more than they could ever tell. One of my officer comrades had gone insane, and another had been so shell shocked that he was of no further use and had been sent to England, the latter was one of those officers whom I had seen in the little club house at Winnezeele.
We descended, and made our way wearily to Winnezeele, a straggling village of outlying farms, close to the Belgian frontier. Here we remained three days, and with the zeal of new troops obeyed every letter of the law.
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