ow the usual
tale of soldiers' suffering and privations: when women are about they
don't let them suffer.

The only plan (if you know of any man who wants to come out) is to know
how to drive a motor-car and then to offer it and his services to the
Red Cross Society. I have set my heart on station soup-kitchens because
I see the men put into horse-boxes on straw straight off the field, and
there they lie without water or light or food while the train jolts on
for hours. I wish I had you here to back me up! We could do anything
together.

As ever, yours gratefully,
SALLY.

The motor kitchens cost L600 fitted, but the maker is giving the one I
speak of for L300. Everyone has given so much to the war I don't feel
sure I could collect this amount. I might try America, but it takes a
long time.

CHAPTER III

AT FURNES RAILWAY-STATION

_21 November._--I am up to my eyes in soup! I have started my
soup-kitchen at the station, and it gives me a lot to do. Bad luck to
it, my cold and cough are pretty bad!

It is odd to wake in the morning in a frozen room, with every pane of
glass green and thick with frost, and one does not dare to think of Mary
and morning tea! When I can summon enough moral courage to put a foot
out of bed I jump into my clothes at once; half dressed, I go to a
little tap of cold water to wash, and then, and for ever, I forgive
entirely those sections of society who do not tub. We brush our own
boots here, and put on all the clothes we possess, and then descend to a
breakfast of Quaker oat porridge with bread and margarine. I wouldn't
have it different, really, till our men are out of the trenches; but I
am hoping most fervently that I shan't break down, as I am so "full with
soup."

[Page Heading: WORK IN THE SOUP-KITCHEN]

Our kitchen at the railway-station is a little bit of a passage, which
measures eight feet by eight feet. In it are two small stoves. One is a
little round iron thing which burns, and the other is a sort of little
"kitchener" which doesn't! With this equipment, and various huge
"marmites," we make coffee and soup for hundreds of men every day. The
first convoy gets into the station about 9.30 a.m., all the men frozen,
the black troops nearly dead with cold. As soon as the train arrives I
carry out one of my boiling "marmites" to the middle of the stone
entrance and ladle out the soup, while a Belgian Sister takes round
coffee and bread.

These Belgians (three of th