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 the idea. We were in the state of mind which led to some of the black business in Belgium when the Germans first advanced—nervous, ready to believe any rumour of treacherous attack, more afraid of civilian hostility than of armed troops. A single shot fired by some drunken fool in a German village, a single man of ours killed in a brawl, or murdered by a German out for vengeance, might lead to most bloody tragedy. Rumour was already whispering of ghastly things.

I remember on the first day of our advance meeting a young officer of ours in charge of an armoured car which had broken down across the frontier, outside a village.

"I'd give a million pounds to get out of this job," he said gloomily.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

He told me that the game was already beginning, and swore frightful oaths.

"What game?"

"Murder," he answered, sharply. "Don't you get the news? Two of our fellows have been killed in that village. Sniped from the windows. Presently I shall be told to sweep the streets with machine-guns. Jolly work, what?"

He was utterly wrong, though where he heard the lie which made him miserable I never knew. I walked into the village, and found it peaceful. No men of ours had been killed there. No men of ours had yet entered it.

The boy who was to go forward with the leading cavalry patrol across the Rothwasser that morning had "the needle" to the same degree. He leaned sideways in his saddle and confided his fears to me with laughter which did not conceal his apprehensions.

"Hope there's no trouble! Haven't the ghost of an idea what to do if the Hun turns nasty. I don't know a word of their beastly language, either! If I'm the boy