IX—AT THE MEXIX GATE

THE events of the night of May —th, 1940, would
never have possessed their peculiar significance in the
eyes of Captain John Ware, R.A., but for an evening
in October, 1928.

On that evening John Ware, a thirteen-year-old boy
in a school cap, stood by the side of his father before
the Menin Gate leading into Ypres. It was after
seven o'clock, and the drizzle of rain that had been
falling all day still persisted. Young John Ware was
tired, chilled and bored. Hungry, too. It seemed
ages since he had last eaten. And the next meal
showed no symptom of approach. Not even the
chance of a grenadine at a cafe brightened the im-
mediate future. His father, apparently, had for-
gotten the existence of such a thing as food. John
gave himself up, with melancholy resignation, to
starvation.

John and his father were staying at Ostend, and
John Ware, senior, was fulfilling desires he had
cherished passionately for nearly ten years. He had
hired a Belgian chauffeur to drive them on a tour of
the battlefields of Ypres. Year by year, ever since
the end of the war, his longing to make a pilgrimage
to all the hallowed spots in this tragic comer of
Belgium, once so painfully familiar to him, grew in

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