As for a chauffeur, love or money couldn't find him, and I was compelled to drive the thing myself.
We left just after midday and swung out into bare bleak downs patched with scrubby woodlands.

There was no snow here, but a wind was blowing from the east which searched the marrow.

Presently we climbed up into hills, and the road, though not badly engineered to begin with, grew as rough as the channel of a stream.

No wonder, for the traffic was like what one saw on that awful stretch between Cassel and Ypres, and there were no gangs of Belgian roadmakers to mend it up.

We found troops by the thousands striding along with their impassive Turkish faces, ox convoys, mule convoys, wagons drawn by sturdy little Anatolian horses, and, coming in the contrary direction, many shabby Red Crescent cars and wagons of the wounded.