tor-cycling to and from
Boulogne!

On the great night we prepared some food for them, and having packed our
kits, tried to sleep. As the hour drew near we listened excitedly for
the noise of their engines. Several false alarms disturbed us: first, a
despatch rider from the Third Division, and then another from the Corps.
At last we heard the purr of three engines together, and then a moment
later the faint rustle of others in the distance. We recognised the
engines and jumped up. All the birds came home save one. George had
never quite recovered from his riding exercises. Slight blood poisoning
had set in. His leave had been extended at home. So poor "Tommy," who
had joined us at Beuvry, was compelled to remain behind.

Violent question and answer for an hour, then we piled ourselves on our
light lorry. Singing like angels we rattled into Bailleul. Just opposite
Corps Headquarters, our old billet, we found a little crowd waiting.
None of us could talk much for the excitement. We just wandered about
greeting friends. I met again that stoutest of warriors, Mr Potter of
the 15th Artillery Brigade, a friend of Festubert days. Then a battalion
of French infantry passed through, gallant and cheerful men. At last the
old dark-green buses rolled up, and about three in the morning we
pounded off at a good fifteen miles an hour along the Cassel road.

Two of us sat on top, for it was a gorgeous night. We rattled over the
_pave_ alongside multitudinous transport sleeping at the side of the
road--through Metern, through Caestre of pleasant memories, and south to
Hazebrouck. Our driver was a man of mark, a racing motorist in times of
peace. He left the other buses and swung along rapidly by himself. He
slowed down for nothing. Just before Hazebrouck we caught up a French
convoy. I do not quite know what happened. The Frenchmen took cover in
one ditch. We swayed past, half in the other, at a good round pace.
Waggons seemed to disappear under our wheels, and frightened horses
plunged violently across the road. But we passed them without a
scratch--to be stopped by the level-crossing at Hazebrouck. There we
filled up with coffee and cognac, while the driver told us of his
adventures in Antwerp.

We rumbled out of Hazebrouck towards St Omer. It was a clear dawn in
splashes of pure colour. All the villages were peaceful, untouched by
war. When we came to St Omer it was quite light. All the soldiers in the
town looked amateurish. We c