CHAPTER X
WITH THE BRITISH IN FLANDERS
I RECEIVED the coveted invitation to visit the British front the morning after my return to Paris from Champagne. The provost marshal started me adventurously enough. I was to report to the landing officer at one of the great seaport bases the next day at one o'clock—daylight saving time. That variation of an hour confused everything.
"You can only make it by the military train at 11:40 to-night," he said. “You'll have twelve nice sleepless hours for a journey that ought to take four or five. Then war is never convenient. Good-bye, good luck, and cling to your headquarters pass."
At half past eleven the facade of the Gare du Nord with its staring yellow clock was sufficiently forbidding. There were no hurrying crowds, no babel of voices, no porters. A gendarme, unreservedly surprised at the presence of a civilian, trundled my bag through. The great shed, inadequately lighted, had an unfamiliar air. A single train of low and antique carriages stretched
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