ould be compelled to continue our wanderings for full two more years
before the last journey home could be made. And yet, so it was. The
Fleur de Lys, for the first time since it had been adopted by the
Manchester Regiment, was borne to the soil of France, the country that
gave it birth, and whose kings wore it proudly for hundreds of years, by
Englishmen who had pledged themselves to fight in and for that fair
land. "Fair Land!" I hear someone scornfully mutter. However much we
were destined in the days to come, when wallowing to our waists amidst
the soil and water of France, to think very much the reverse, it would
be impossible to forget the glory of our Southern entrance to this sad
country.

The battalion made the trip across the Mediterranean in good company,
for the ship was shared by ourselves and the 8th Manchesters (the
Gallant Ardwicks) commanded by Lt.-Col. Morrough. We had an opportunity
of renewing our acquaintance with Malta, so vivid in its intense
colouring, whilst our escort of torpedo boats was changed. Perhaps the
following extract from an officer's diary will suffice to epitomise
whatever incident there was in the journey:--

"... It was more or less boisterous all the way, and on occasion
decidedly so--a vastly different voyage from my journey out. The
much-vaunted German submarine 'blockade' was not conspicuous, for
we neither saw nor heard of a submarine. Undoubtedly, of course,
one is conscious of the menace, and a good deal of what might be
enjoyment of the sea is spoiled by this horror. One thinks not of
the sea as inspiration of sublime thoughts and all things the poets
tell us of, but as a receptacle for submarines ... and for us if we
are hit. It was decidedly disconcerting to contemplate a dip during
the heavy weather. There would be little chance of being picked up
I should imagine. Still, we were able to appreciate the colours of
Malta, the grand snow-capped mountains of Corsica and the
neighbouring islands, while the entrance to Marseilles is a sight I
shall never forget. For colour and form I think it is perfect. In a
sense Plymouth resembles it, but as a cat the tiger. Here the rocks
run down in their limy whiteness sheer to the sea, with chateaux
and churches on impossible peaks, backed by tremendous stern
giants. Why will they not allow us on shore to get a closer
view?... Just above my