ushed
down to Chatham, and my sister has urgently requested me to mention in
"the book" that she carried, with much labour, a large and heavy pair of
ski-ing boots. Most of the others had enlisted like myself in a hurry.
They did not see "their people" until December.

All of us were made to write our names in the visitors' book, for, as
the waiter said--

"They ain't nobodies now, but in these 'ere times yer never knows what
they may be."

Then, when we had gone in an ear-breaking splutter of exhausts, he
turned to comfort my mother--

"Pore young fellers! Pore young fellers! I wonder if any of 'em will
return."

That damp chilly morning I was very sleepy and rather frightened at the
new things I was going to do. I imagined war as a desperate continuous
series of battles, in which I should ride along the trenches
picturesquely haloed with bursting shell, varied by innumerable
encounters with Uhlans, or solitary forest rides and immense tiring
treks over deserted country to distant armies. I wasn't quite sure I
liked the idea of it all. But the sharp morning air, the interest in
training a new motor-cycle in the way it should go, the unexpected
popping-up and grotesque salutes of wee gnome-like Boy Scouts, soon
made me forget the war. A series of the kind of little breakdowns you
always have in a collection of new bikes delayed us considerably, and
only a race over greasy setts through the southern suburbs, over
Waterloo Bridge and across the Strand, brought us to Euston just as the
boat-train was timed to start. In the importance of our new uniforms we
stopped it, of course, and rode joyfully from one end of the platform to
the other, much to the agitation of the guard, while I posed
delightfully against a bookstall to be photographed by a patriotic
governess.

Very grimy we sat down to a marvellous breakfast, and passed the time
reading magazines and discussing the length of the war. We put it at
from three to six weeks. At Holyhead we carefully took our bikes aboard,
and settled down to a cold voyage. We were all a trifle apprehensive at
our lack of escort, for then, you will remember, it had not yet been
proved how innocuous the German fleet is in our own seas.[1]

Ireland was a disappointment. Everybody was dirty and unfriendly,
staring at us with hostile eyes. Add Dublin grease, which beats the
Belgian, and a crusty garage proprietor who only after persuasion
supplied us with petrol, and you may be sure