We are in the neighbourhood of Charleroi. Hideous mining districts stretch away in all directions, all dotted with the minor Ngaruahoes I spoke of before. Our progress is mostly stoppages.
Tea is made in the last wagon of the train of about 30 carriages, and amusing incidents occur when the train unexpectedly starts off, and there is a scramble of yelling tea-spilling Tommies back to their carriages; which, breathlessly attained, the train promptly stops for another half hour. Evidence of the late war in the form of blown up bridges and wrecked stations and rolling stock are accumulating.
8.30 p.m. At Tournai. The train occasionally moves slowly and painfully for as much as 5 miles, then stops for anything up to 2½ hours. It ought to be oiled.