fortresses would tear at will into the German lines, cut up an outpost
or wipe out a cavalry patrol, dynamite a bridge or a tunnel or a
culvert, and be back in the Belgian lines again almost before the
enemy realized what had happened.

I witnessed an example of the cool daring of these mitrailleuse
drivers during the fighting around Malines. Standing on a railway
embankment, I was watching the withdrawal under heavy fire of the
last Belgian troops, when an armoured car, the lean muzzle of its
machine-gun peering from its turret, tore past me at fifty miles an
hour, spitting a murderous spray of lead as it bore down on the
advancing Germans. But when within a few hundred yards of the
German line the car slackened speed and stopped. Its petrol was
exhausted. Instantly one of the crew was out in the road and, under
cover of the fire from the machine-gun, began to refill the tank.
Though bullets were kicking up spurts of dust in the road or
ping-pinging against the steel turret he would not be hurried. I,
who was watching the scene through my field-glasses, was much more
excited than he was. Then, when the tank was filled, the car refused
to back! It was a big machine and the narrow road was bordered on
either side by deep ditches, but by a miracle the driver was able--
and just able--to turn the car round. Though by this time the German
gunners had the range and shrapnel was bursting all about him, he
was as cool as though he were turning a limousine in the width of
Piccadilly. As the car straightened out for its retreat, the Belgians
gave the Germans a jeering screech from their horn, and a parting
blast of lead from their machine-gun and went racing Antwerpwards.

It is, by the way, a curious and interesting fact that the machine-gun
used in both the Belgian and Russian armoured cars, and which is