We passed some Turcos, happy-looking children but ill companions in a
hostile country, and some Spahis with flowing burnous, who looked
ridiculously out of place, and then, after a long search--it was dark on
the road and very cold--we found the Division.

I dined off a maconochie, and was wondering whether I dare lie down to
sleep, when I was called out to take a message to and remain at the 13th
Brigade. It was a bad night. Never was a man so cold in his life, and
the brigade had taken up its quarters in a farm situated in the centre
of a very labyrinth of country roads. But I had four hours' sleep when I
got there, while the others were up all the night.

There was no hurry in the morning. The orders were to join the Division
at a bridge just outside Béthune, a point which they could not possibly
reach before ten. So I got up late and had a glorious meal of soup,
omelette, and fruit in the town, waited on by a most excellent flapper
who wanted to know everything about everything. I reported at the Signal
Office, then occupying the lodge of the town cemetery, and was sent off
to catch the Devons. At the village where I waited for them I found some
Cuirassiers, genial fellows; but living helios in the burning sun. When
I returned the Division had moved along the north bank of the Canal to
Beuvry Station. The post picked us up, and in the joyous possession of
two parcels and some letters I unpacked my kit. We all settled down on
some moderately clean straw in the waiting-room of the station, and
there we remained for three full weeks.

Men talk of the battle of Ypres[15] as the finest achievement of the
British Army. There was one brigade there that had a past. It had fought
at Mons and Le Cateau, and then plugged away cheerfully through the
Retreat and the Advance. What was left of it had fought stiffly on the