sional and the brigade headquarters. The rest were
attached to the brigades, and either used for miscellaneous work or held
in reserve so that communication might not be broken if the wires were
cut or smashed by shells.

One motor-cyclist went out every day to Lieutenant Chapman, who was
acting as liaison officer with the French. This job never fell to my
lot, but I am told it was exciting enough. The French general was an
intrepid old fellow, who believed that a general should be near his
fighting men. So his headquarters were always being shelled. Then he
would not retire, but preferred to descend into the cellar until the
evil times were overpast.

The despatch rider with Chapman had his bellyful of shells. It was
pleasant to sit calmly in a cellar and receive food at the hands of an
accomplished _chef_, and in more peaceful times there was opportunity to
study the idiosyncrasies of German gunners and the peculiar merits of
the Soixante-Quinze. But when the shelling was hottest there was usually
work for the despatch rider--and getting away from the unhealthy area
before scooting down the Annequin road was a heart-thumping job.

French generals were always considerate and hospitable to us despatch
riders. On our arrival at Bethune Huggie was sent off with a message to
a certain French Corps Commander. The General received him with a proper
French embrace, congratulated him on our English bravery, and set him
down to some food and a glass of good wine.

It was at La Bassee that we had our first experience of utterly
unrideable roads. North of the canal the roads were fair macadam in dry
weather and to the south the main road Bethune-Beuvry-Annequin was of
the finest pave. Then it rained hard. First the roads became greasy
beyond belief. Starting was perilous, and the slightest injudicious
swerve meant a bad skid. Between Gorre and Festubert the road was vile.
It went on raining, and the roads were thickly covered with glutinous
mud. The front mud-guard of George's Douglas choked up with a lamentable
frequency. The Blackburne alone, the finest and most even-running of all
motor-cycles,[16] ran with unswerving regularity.

Finally, to our heartburning sorrow, there were nights on which
motor-cycling became impossible, and we stayed restlessly at home while
men on the despised horse carried our despatches. This we could not
allow for long. Soon we became so skilled that, if I remember correctly,
it was only on half