After a bit we returned into the house—­a trifle prematurely, I’m afraid—­as presently a pretty large line in explosive drainpipes landed close outside, and, as we afterwards discovered, blew out a fair-sized duck pond in the road.  We were all inside, and I think nearly every one said a sentence which gave me my first idea for a Fragment from France.  A sentence which must have been said countless times in this war, i.e., “Where did that one go?”

We were all inside the cottage now, with intent, staring faces, looking outside through the battered doorway.  There was something in the whole situation which struck me as so pathetically amusing, that when the ardour of the Boches had calmed down a bit, I proceeded to make a pencil sketch of the situation.  When I got back to billets the next time I determined to make a finished wash drawing of the scene, and send it to some paper or other in England.  In due course we got back to billets, and the next morning I fished out my scanty drawing materials from my valise, and sitting at a circular table in one of the rooms at the farm, I did a finished drawing of “Where did that one go,” occasionally looking through the window on to a mountain of manure outside for inspiration.

The next thing was to send it off.  What paper should I send it to?  I had had a collection of papers sent out to me at Christmas time from some one or other.  A few of these were still lying about.  A Bystander was amongst them.  I turned over the pages and considered for a bit whether my illustrated joke might be in their line.  I thought of several other papers, but on the whole concluded that the Bystander would suit for the purpose, and so, having got the address off the cover, I packed up my drawing round a roll of old paper, enclosed it in brown paper, and put it out to be posted at the next opportunity.  In due course it went to the post, and I went to the trenches again, forgetting all about the incident.

Next time in the trenches was full of excitement.  We had done a couple of days of the endless mud, rain, and bullet-dodging work when suddenly one night we heard we were to be relieved and go elsewhere.  Every one then thought of only one thing—­where were we going?  We all had different ideas.  Some said we were bound for Ypres, which we heard at that time was a pretty “warm” spot; some said La Bassee was our destination—­“warm,” but not quite as much so as Ypres.  Wild rumours that we were going to Egypt were of course around; they always are.  There was another beauty:  that we were going back to England for a rest!