I rode through Coulommiers, a jolly rambling old town, to our billet in
a suburban villa on the Rebais road. The Division was marching past in
the very best of spirits. We, who were very tired, endeavoured to make
ourselves comfortable--we were then blanketless--on the abhorrent
surface of a narrow garden path.

That night a 2nd Corps despatch rider called in half an hour before his
death. We have heard many explanations of how he died. He crashed into a
German barricade, and we discovered him the next morning with his eyes
closed, neatly covered with a sheet, in a quaint little house at the
entrance to the village of Doué.

At dawn (Sept. 8th) the others went on with the column. I was sent back
with a despatch for Faremoutiers, and then was detailed to remain for an
hour with Cecil. Ten minutes after my return the Fat Boy rode in,
greatly excited. He had gone out along the Aulnoy road with a message,
and round a corner had run into a patrol of Uhlans. He kept his head,
turned quickly, and rode off in a shower of bullets. He was
tremendously indignant, and besought some cavalry who were passing to
go in pursuit.

We heard the rumble of guns and started in a hurry after the column.
Sergeant Merchant's bicycle--our spare, a Rudge--burnt out its clutch,
and we left it in exchange for some pears at a cottage with a delicious
garden in Champbreton. Doué was a couple of miles farther on.

Colonel Sawyer, D.D.M.S., stopped me anxiously, and asked me to go and
see if I could recognise the despatch rider's corpse. I meditated over
it for a few minutes, then ran on to the signal-office by the roadside.