In an evacuation station, where a number of British were waiting for
the hospital train, the ragged fellows told me of adventures that only
their scarlet, honest faces made credible. There was a young Lieutenant
who was on a train that was sent up north yesterday toward Fismes. The
exact whereabouts of the enemy was unknown. They ran right into the
German lines.
The outposts received them with a volley of rifle shots and then came
on with grenades. The engine driver stopped the train, jumped down, and
took refuge in a ditch. While the fight waxed hotter he was induced
to return, and they managed to steam backward just in time, carrying
some wounded and three German prisoners with them. The Lieutenant's
satisfaction in this last item seemed, however, to be marred by the
impression that the Germans were not forcibly captured, but wished to
surrender.
The civilian refugees are going south in processions of farm carts,
high-ended wagons, and ancient traps, or footing it behind barrows and
perambulators. I would not speak lightly of the temporary loss of their
lands and homes, but in their ranks there was no sign of panic or fear
for the final result.
Most of them were women and children, with a few gaffers, heading a
family group or driving cows and big white oxen. Girls with umbrellas
up against the hot sun and dust clouds, little children in their Sunday
best, and old ladies in Scotch caps sat on piles of straw, amid bedding
and furniture, on high wagons. Many of the younger folks had bicycles
and many walked, with dogs and goats frisking about them.