There wagons began to pass us going the
opposite way, the horses whipped into a gallop as they made haste to
get through the town to the bridge-head on the far side. Motor
transport lorries also drove at full speed to get by this danger point
as quickly as possible. As we cleared the town again, the traffic
became heavier, and we gradually worked into and formed part of a
great human stream with various eddies and back currents.
It was now dark, and but for the feeble light of a young moon, which
sometimes broke through the clouds and faintly illuminated the road,
nothing could be seen. All headlights were out, and not even the light
of a hand lantern or flashlight was permitted. Yet one's eyes became
accustomed to the dark, and when the pale moonlight came through we
could dimly see over on our right a line of French Turcos moving like
ghosts along towards Vlamertinge. Next them were the fleeing refugees
with their bundles, wagons and push carts, and their cows being driven
before them. If there was a cart, the old man or old lady would
invariably be seated on the top of the load, sometimes holding the
baby.
In the centre of the road we groped our way along with infinite care.
A shadow would sometimes bear down on the car, and suddenly swerve to
one side as a horseman trotted by. A motor lorry would approach within
a few feet of us before the driver would see, and stop before we
crashed into each other.
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