The train shuffled out of the station just before dawn. We slept a bit,
and then, just as it was getting light, started our pipes and began to
talk of the future.

The general opinion favoured Ostend, though a sergeant hazarded that we
were going to be shipped swiftly across to England to defend the East
Coast. This suggestion was voted impossible and tactless--at least, we
didn't put it quite like that. Ostend it was going to be--train to
Abbéville, and then boat to Ostend, and a rapid march against the German
flank.

The discussion was interrupted by somebody saying he had heard from
somebody who had been told by his Major, that 60,000 Germans had been
killed in the last two days, Von Kluck had been killed by a lucky shell,
and the Crown Prince had committed suicide. We were bringing the
cynicism of youth to bear on the trustfulness of a mature mercenary when
the train arrived at Amiens.

Some washed. Some meditated on a train of French wounded and another
train of Belgian refugees, humble and pitiful objects, very smelly. Two,
not waiting for orders, rushed to the buffet and bought beer and
sardines and chocolate and bread. One of these was cut off from his
waggon by a long goods train that passed through, but he knew the ways
of military trains, waited till the goods had passed, then ran after us
and caught us up after a mile's jog-trot. The good people of Amiens, who
had not so very long before been delivered from the Germans, were
exceedingly affectionate, and threw us fruit, flowers, and kisses. Those
under military age shrieked at the top of their shrill little trebles--