cussion as to whether they would be in time for
the English boat. It seemed rather cruel. Then
I remembered the hard facts. These women
during many months had worked in hospitals
sheltering wounds unbearable merely to see.
They had watched young men go forth not to
return. They had helped others back to a mutilated, useless existence. The romance in Flanders
isn't the old romance. It is there, nevertheless.
It is greater than the old romance because it is
definable only in terms of undisciplined truth.
Such fugitive experiences are always impressive in the war zone. I, too, carried from that sunlit station a sharp regret. The momentary glimpse of this young soldier had left a sense of acquaintanceship. It seemed incredible there should be no renewal, no knowledge by and by of the resolution of his future which then had appeared so brief and futile.
Those poor girls didn't catch their boat for England. We puffed into the noisy, dusty seaport base an hour late. An excitable porter scooped up my bag and piled it on a truck with their luggage. Before I could stop him he was careering drunkenly along the docks at their flying heels. The military landing officer rescued us. He was sympathetic with the nurses. He promised me an hour for a bath and a noon breakfast before
