When I was sure of my piano I thought of another thing it would be well for me to take with me.  And so I spent a hundred pounds—­five hundred American dollars—­for cigarettes.  I knew they would be welcome everywhere I went.  It makes no matter how many cigarettes we send to France, there will never be enough.  My friends thought I was making a mistake in taking so many; they were afraid they would make matters hard when it came to transportation, and reminded me that I faced difficulties in that respect in France it was nearly impossible for us at home in Britain to visualize at all.  But I had my mind and my heart set on getting those fags—­a cigarette is a fag to every British soldier—­to my destination with me.  Indeed, I thought they would mean more to the laddies out there than I could hope to do myself!

I was not to travel alone.  My tour was to include two traveling companions of distinction and fame.  One was James Hogge, M.P., member from East Edinburgh, who was eager, as so many members of Parliament were, to see for himself how things were at the front.  James Hogge was one of the members most liked by the soldiers.  He had worked hard for them, and gained—­and well earned—­much fame by the way he struggled with the matter of getting the right sort of pensions for the laddies who were offering their lives.

The other distinguished companion I was to have was an old and good friend of mine, the Reverend George Adam, then a secretary to the Minister of Munitions.  He lived in Ilford, a suburb of London, then, but is now in Montreal, Canada.  I was glad of the opportunity to travel with both these men, for I knew that one’s traveling companions, on such a tour, were of the utmost importance in determining its success or failure, and I could not have chosen a better pair, had the choice been left to me—­which, of course, it was not.

There we were, you see—­the Reverend George Adam, Harry Lauder and James Hogge, M.P.  And no sooner did the soldiers hear of the combination than our tour was named “The Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour” was what we were called!  And that absurd name stuck to us through our whole journey, in France, up and down the battle line, and until we came home to England and broke up!

CHAPTER XII

Up to that time I had thought I knew a good deal about the war.  I had had much news from my boy.  I had talked, I think, to as many returned soldiers as any man in Britain.  I had seen much of the backwash and the wretched aftermath of war.  Ah, yes, I thought I knew more than most folk did of what war meant!  But until my tour began, as I see now, easily enough, I knew nothing—­literally nothing at all!

There are towns and ports in Britain that are military areas.  One may not enter them except upon business, the urgency of which has been established to the satisfaction of the military authorities.  One must have a permit to live in them, even if they be one’s home town.  These towns are vital to the war and its successful prosecution.