house occupied by the Colonel.  I got in just in time to have a bit of a meal before the servants cleared the things away to get ready for the early start the next day.  I spent that night in my greatcoat on the stone floor of the room, and not much of a night at that.  We were all up and paraded at six, and ready to move off.  We soon started and trekked off down the road out of Locre towards Ypres.  I noticed a great change in the scenery now.  The land was flatter and altogether more uninteresting than the parts we had come from.  The weather was fine and hot, which made our march harder for us.  We were all strapped up to the eyes with equipment of every description, so that we fully appreciated the short periodic rests when they came.  The road got less and less attractive as we went on, added to which a horrible gusty wind was blowing the dust along towards us, too, which made it worse.  It was a most cheerless, barren, arid waste through which we were now passing.  I wondered why the Belgians hadn’t given it away long ago, and thus saved any further dispute on the matter.  We were now making for Vlamertinghe, which is a place about half-way between Locre and Ypres, and we all felt sure enough now that Ypres was where we were going; besides, passers-by gave some of us a tip or two, and rumours were current that there was a bit of a bother on in the salient.  Still, there was nothing told us definitely, and on we went, up the dusty, uninteresting road.  Somewhere about midday we halted alongside an immense grassless field, on which were innumerable wooden huts of the simplest and most unattractive construction.  The dust whirled and swirled around them, making the whole place look as uninviting as possible.  It was the rottenest and least encouraging camp I have ever seen.  I’ve seen a few monstrosities in the camp line in England, and in France, but this was far and away a champion in repulsion.  We halted opposite this place, as I have said, and in a few moments were all marched into the central, baked-mud square, in the midst of the huts.  I have since learnt that this camp is no more, so I don’t mind mentioning it.  We were now dismissed, whereupon we all collared huts for our men and ourselves, and sat down to rest.

We had had a very early and scratch sort of a breakfast, so were rather keen to get at the lunch question.  The limbers were the last things to turn up, being in the rear of the battalion, but when they did the cooks soon pulled the necessary things out and proceeded to knock up a meal.

I went outside my hut and surveyed the scene whilst they got the lunch ready.  It was a rotten place.  The huts hadn’t got any sides to them, but were made by two slopes of wood fixed at the top, and had triangular ends.  There were just a few huts built with sides, but not many.  Apart from the huts the desert contained nothing except men in war-worn, dirty khaki, and clouds of dust.  It reminded me very much of India, as I remembered it from my childhood days.  The land all around this mud plain was flat and scrubby, with nothing of interest to look at anywhere.  But, yes, there was—­just one thing.  Away to the north, I could just see the top of the towers of Ypres.