From a Belgian officer we had been given inside information that the fight would be pulled off at Gembloux.

And, unencumbered by even a sandwich, and too wise to carry a field-glass or a camera, each would depart upon his separate errand, at night returning to a perfectly served dinner and a luxurious bed.

For the news-gatherers it was a game of chance.

The wisest veterans would cast their nets south and see only harvesters in the fields, the amateurs would lose their way to the north and find themselves facing an army corps or running a gauntlet of shell-fire.

It was like throwing a handful of coins on the table hoping that one might rest upon the winning number.