watch. A storm was raging down the valley. The road at any time was
covered with tired foot sloggers. I had to curse them, for they wouldn't
get out of the way. Soon I warmed and cursed them crudely and glibly in
four languages. On my return I found some looted boiled eggs and
captured German Goulasch hot for me. I fed and turned in.

This day my kit was left behind with other unnecessary "tackle," to
lighten the horses' load. I wish I had known it.

The remaining eggs for breakfast--delicious.

Huggie and I were sent off just before dawn on a message that took us to
St Rémy, a fine church, and Hartennes, where we were given hot tea by
that great man, Sergeant Croucher of the Divisional Cyclists. I rode
back to Rozet St Albin, a pleasant name, along a road punctuated with
dead and very evil-smelling horses. Except for the smell it was a good
run of about ten miles. I picked up the Division again on the sandy road
above Chacrise.

Sick of column riding I turned off the main road up a steep hill into
Ambrief, a desolate black-and-white village totally deserted. It came on
to pour, but there was a shrine handy. There I stopped until I was
pulled out by an ancient captain of cuirassiers, who had never seen an
Englishman before and wanted to hear all about us.

On into Acy, where I decided to head off the Division at Ciry, instead
of crossing the Aisne and riding straight to Vailly, our proposed H.Q.
for that night. The decision saved my life, or at least my liberty. I
rode to Sermoise, a bright little village where the people were actually
making bread. At the station there was a solitary cavalry man. In Ciry