Naturally most of the Mess had been in France before, but to Tommy it
was a world undiscovered. The first impression made on the men was
created by a huge negro working on the docks. He was greeted with roars
of laughter, and cries of, "Hallo, Jack Johnson!" The red trousers of
the French sentries, too, created a tremendous sensation. At length the
right landing-stage was reached. Equipments were thrown on, and the
Battalion was paraded on the dock.

The march through the cobbled streets of Havre rapidly developed into a
fiasco. This was one of the first, if not the very first, landing of
British Troops in France, and to the French it was a novelty, calling
for a tremendous display of open-armed welcome. Children rushed from the
houses, and fell upon the men crying for "souvenirs." Ladies pursued
them with basins full of wine and what they were pleased to call beer.
Men were literally carried from the ranks, under the eyes of their
Officers, and borne in triumph into houses and inns. What with the heat
of the day and the heaviness of the equipment and the after-effects of
the noisome deck, the men could scarcely be blamed for availing
themselves of such hospitality, though to drink intoxicants on the march
is suicidal. Men "fell out," first by ones and twos, then by whole
half-dozens and dozens. The Subaltern himself was scarcely strong enough
to stagger up the long hills at the back of the town, let alone worrying
about his men. The Colonel was aghast, and very furious. He couldn't
understand it. (He was riding.)

The camp was prepared for the troops in a wonderfully complete
fashion--not the least thing seemed to have been forgotten. The men,
stripped of their boots, coats and equipments, were resting in the shade
of the tents. A caterer from Havre had come up to supply the Mess, and
the Subaltern was able to procure from him a bottle of rather heady