mutter. The foreign office man and I clutched at the trivial. We talked of automobiles and fishing and hunting, but always we were conscious of the sinister and growing chorus. A big gun crouched at the roadside. It would have been
good to hear it shout back. Sombre and undisturbed, a Hindoo orderly sat his horse in a field.
"Like a graven image," the foreign office man said.
The increasing roar discouraged talking. We tore past and entered the outskirts of a town. The streets were deserted. Holes gaped in the house walls. Doors were pock-marked, windows mostly gone. A popping noise from the front of our car, not unlike the explosion of a shrapnel shell, and under the circumstances about as discouraging, told us that a tire had gone. The driver sent a startled glance at Williams.
"Annoying!" the foreign office man said.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"Outskirts of Arras," Williams snapped.
He sprang out. At such a moment he was sheer efficiency. Most assuredly he didn't want us to get strafed.
"Pile out," he ordered, "and stand close to the wall. “No, no," he cried to the Japanese in the other car. "Not you."
He directed them to remain in the car while
