It was at La Bassée 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 Béthune-Beuvry-Annequin was of
the finest pavé. 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 a dozen nights in all right through the winter that
the horsemen were required.

It was at La Bassée too that we had our second casualty. A despatch
rider whom we called "Moulders" came in one evening full of triumph. A
bullet had just grazed his leg and the Government was compelled to
provide him with a new puttee. We were jealous, and he was proud.

We slept in that room which was no room, the entrance-hall of Beuvry
Station. It was small and crowded. The floor was covered with straw
which we could not renew. After the first fortnight the population of
this chamber increased rapidly; one or two of us spoke of himself
hereafter in the plural. They gave far less trouble than we had
expected, and, though always with some of us until the spring, suffered
heavy casualties from the use of copious petrol and the baking of washed