The Somerset men squatted in the road while I sang my songs for them, and gave me their most rapt attention.  It was hugely gratifying and flattering, the silence that always descended upon an audience of soldiers when I sang.  There were never any interruptions.  But at the end of a song, and during the chorus, which they always wanted to sing with me, as I wanted them to do, too, they made up for their silence.

Soon the Reverend Harry Lauder, M.P., Tour was on its way again.  The cheers of the Somerset men sounded gayly in our ears, and the cars quickly picked up speed and began to mop up the miles at a great rate.  And then, suddenly—­whoa!  We were in the midst of soldiers again.  This time it was a bunch of motor repair men.

They wandered along the roads, working on the trucks and cars that were abandoned when they got into trouble, and left along the side of the road.  We had seen scores of such wrecks that day, and I had wondered if they were left there indefinitely.  Far from it, as I learned now.  Squads like this—­there were two hundred men in this particular party—­were always at work.  Many of the cars they salvaged without difficulty—­those that had been abandoned because of comparatively minor engine troubles or defects.  Others had to be towed to a repair shop, or loaded upon other trucks for the journey, if their wheels were out of commission.

Others still were beyond repair.  They had been utterly smashed in a collision, maybe, or as a result of skidding.  Or they had burned.  Sometimes they had been knocked off the road and generally demoralized by a shell.  And in such cases often, all that men such as these we had met now could do was to retrieve some parts to be used in repairing other cars in a less hopeless state.

By this time Johnson and the two soldier chauffeurs had reduced the business of setting our stage to a fine point.  It took us but a very few minutes indeed to be ready for a concert, and from the time when we sighted a potential audience to the moment for the opening number was an almost incredibly brief period.  This time that was a good thing, for it was growing late.  And so, although the repair men were loath to let me go, it was but an abbreviated programme that I was able to offer them.  This was one of the most enthusiastic audiences I had had yet, for nearly every man there, it turned out, had been what Americans would call a Harry Lauder fan in the old days.  They had been wont to go again and again to hear me.  I wanted to stay and sing more songs for them, but Captain Godfrey was in charge, and I had to obey his orders, reluctant though I was to go on.

Our destination was a town called Aubigny—­rather an old chateau just outside the town.  Aubigny was the billet of the Fifteenth Division, then in rest.  Many officers were quartered in the chateau, as the guests of its French owners, who remained in possession, having refused to clear out, despite the nearness of the actual fighting front.