rench to the front trenches--in some cases you
find that policeman there also, faithfully telling you the way,
incidentally with a very close and critical eye upon you at the same
time.

He is simply the British policeman doing his famous old job in his
famous old way. He is mostly the London policeman, but there are
policemen from Burnley, from Manchester, from Glasgow amongst them. And
up near the lines you find the policeman from Sydney and Melbourne
waving the traffic along with a flag just as he used to do at the corner
of Pitt and King Streets. Just as he used to see that the by-laws of the
local council were carried out, so he now has to see to the rules and
orders made by the local general. It is a thankless job generally; but
when they get as far as this most people begin to be a little grateful
to the policeman.

Our railway train and the policeman had carried us over endless
farmlands, through forests, beside rivers, before we noticed, drawn up
along the side of a quarter of a mile of road, an endless procession of
big grey motor-lorries. Every one was exactly like the next--a tall grey
hood in front and a long grey tarpaulin behind. It was the first sign of
the front. Presently a French regiment went by along a country road--not
at all unlike our Australian troops in some ways--biggish fellows in
grey-blue overcoats, all singing a jolly song. They waved to us in the
same light-hearted way Australians have. There were more fair-haired
men, among some of the French troops we have seen, than there would be
in one of our own battalions.

After this there came great stores at intervals, and timber yards--hour
after hour of farmhouses and villages where there was a Tommy in every
doorway, Tommies in every barn, a Tommy's khaki jacket showing through
every kitchen window; until at last towards evening we reached a country
populated by the familiar old pea-soup overcoats and high-necked
jackets and slouch hats of Australians.

There they were, the men whom we had last seen on the Suez Canal--here
they were, already, in the orchard alongside of the old lichened,
steep-roofed barn--four or five of them squatting round a fire of
sticks, one stuffing his pipe and talking, talking, talking all the
while. I knew that they were happy there before ever they said it. A
track led across a big field--there were two Australians walking along
it. A road crossed the railway--two Australians were standing at the
open door of