I left the buffet for a moment to go across to the Transport Office, and walking along through the throng ran into my greatest friend.  A most extraordinary chance this!  I had not the least idea whereabouts in France he was, or when he might be likely to get leave.  His job was in quite a different part, many miles from the Douve.  I have known him for many years; we were at school together, and have always seemed to have the lucky knack of bobbing up to the surface simultaneously without prior arrangement.  This meeting sent my spirits up higher than ever.  We both adjourned to the buffet, and talked away about our various experiences to the accompaniment of cold chicken and ham.  A merry scene truly, that buffet—­every one filled with thoughts of England.  Nearly every one there must have stepped out of the same sort of mud and danger bath that I had.  And, my word! it is a first-class feeling:  sitting about waiting for the boat when you feel you’ve earned this seven days’ leave.  You hear men on all sides getting the last ounce of appreciation out of the unique sensation by saying such things as, “Fancy those poor blighters, sitting in the mud up there; they’ll be just about getting near ‘Stand to’ now.”

You rapidly dismiss a momentary flash in your mind of what it’s going to be like in that buffet on the return journey.

Early in the morning, and while it was still dark, we left the harbour and ploughed out into the darkness and the sea towards England.

I claim the honoured position of the world’s worst sailor.  I have covered several thousand miles on the sea, “brooked the briny” as far as India and Canada.  I have been hurtled about on the largest Atlantic waves; yet I am, and always will remain, absolutely impossible at sea.  Looking at the docks out of the hotel window nearly sends me to bed; there’s something about a ship that takes the stuffing out of me completely.  Whether it’s that horrible pale varnished woodwork, mingled with the smell of stuffy upholstery, or whether it’s that nauseating whiff from the open hatch of the engine-room, I don’t know; but once on a ship I am as naught ... not nautical.

Of course the Channel was going to be rough.  I could see that at a glance.  I know exactly what to do about the sea now.  I go straight to a bunk, and hope for the best; if no bunk—­bribe the steward until there is one.

I got a bunk, deserted my friend in a cheerless way, and retired till the crossing was over.  It was very rough....

In the cold grey hours we glided into Dover or Folkestone (I was too anaemic to care which) and fastened up alongside the wharf.  I had a dim recollection of getting my pal to hold my pack as we left Boulogne, and now I could see neither him nor the pack.  Fearful crush struggling up the gangway.  I had to scramble for a seat in the London train, so couldn’t waste time looking for my friend.  I had my haversack—­he had my pack.