was, dressed in her widow's weeds and holding in her arms a
mass of flowers. Solemnly we went out into the streets. Not a
civilian, not a soldier, not even a military policeman was to be seen.
All other human beings had taken refuge from the deluge: we were quite
alone. Right through the town we went and out to the little cemetery,
into which she brought me and led to her husband's grave, on which she
placed the mass of flowers, and then knelt in the mud and prayed for (p. 035)
about half an hour in the pouring rain; after which we walked solemnly
and silently back to the hotel, soaked through and through. It was a
strange affair. I may be stupid, but I cannot yet see her reason for
wishing to take me out in the wet.

[Illustration: XII. _Soldiers and Peasants, Cassel._]

After working up there for about six weeks I began to feel very tired,
and thought I would go for a change; so I decided to run away and go
and see some "Bases"--Dieppe, Le Havre and Rouen. The day after I
reached Dieppe I received a telegram from the "Colonel": "When do you
return?" to which I replied: "Return where, please?" to which
apparently no reply could be made. But two days later I received a
letter from him saying he was moving to another job, but would always
remember the honour of his having had me working under him. This was a
nasty one for me, and I had no answer to give. About the same time I
received a telegram from Sir Philip Sassoon: "Where the devil are you?
_aaa_ Philip." Months later he sent me a great parcel of
correspondence as to whether this telegram, sent by the P.S. of the
C.-in-C., could be regarded as an official telegram, its language,
etc. The minutes were signed by Lieutenants, Captains, Majors,
Colonels, all up to the last one, which was signed by a General, and
ran thus: "What the ---- hell were you using this disgusting language
for, Philip?"

After a week I went back to Cassel, packed up and went south to
Amiens.

CHAPTER V (p. 036)

THE SOMME IN SUMMER-TIME (AUGUST 1917)

Never shall I forget my first sight of the Somme in summer-time. I had
left it mud, nothing but water, shell-holes and mud--the most gloomy,
dreary abomination of desolation the mind could imagine; and now, in
the summer of 1917, no words could express the beauty of it. The
dreary, dismal mud was baked white and pure--dazzling white. White
daisies, red poppies and a blue f