I wondered how long we were going to stay in this Sahara, and turned back into the hut again.  Two or three of us were resting on a little scanty straw in that hut, and now, as we guessed that it was about the time when the cooks would have got the lunch ready, we crossed to another larger hut, where a long bare wooden table was laid out for us.  With sore eyes and a parched throat I sat down and devoured two chilly sardines, reposing on a water biscuit, drank about a couple of gallons of water, and felt better.  There wasn’t much conversation at that meal; we were all too busy thinking.  Besides, the C.O. was getting messages all the time, and was immersed in the study of a large map, so we thought we had better keep quiet.

Our Colonel was a splendid person, as good a one as any battalion could wish to have. (He’s sure to buy a copy of this book after that.) He was with the regiment all through that 1914-15 winter, and is now a Brigadier.

We had made all preparations to stay in the huts at that place for the night, when, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, another message arrived and was handed to the C.O.

He issued his orders.  We were to march off at once.  Every one was delighted, as the place was unattractive, and what’s more, now that we were on the war-path, we wanted to get on with the job, whatever it was.

Now we were on the road once more, and marching on towards Ypres.  The whole brigade was on the road somewhere, some battalions in front of us and some behind.  On we went through the driving dust and dismal scenery, making, I could clearly see, for Ypres.  We ticked off the miles at a good steady marching pace, and in course of time turned out of our long, dusty, winding lane on to a wide cobbled main road, leading evidently into the town of Ypres itself, now about two miles ahead.  It was a fine sight, looking back down the winding column of men.  A long line of sturdy, bronzed men, in dust-covered khaki, tramping over the grey cobbled road, singing and whistling at intervals; the rattling and clicking of the various metallic parts of their equipment forming a kind of low accompaniment to their songs.  We halted about a mile out of the city, and all “fell out” on the side of the road, and sat about on heaps of stones or on the bank of the ditch at the road-side.  It was easy enough to see now where we were going, and what was up.  There was evidently a severe “scrap” on.  Parties of battered, dishevelled looking men, belonging to a variety of regiments, were now streaming past down the road—­many French-African soldiers amongst them.  From these we learnt that a tremendous attack was in progress, but got no details.  Their stories received corroboration by the fact that we could see many shells bursting in and around the city of Ypres.  These vagrant men were wounded in a degree, inasmuch as most of them had been undergoing some prodigious bombardment and were dazed from shell-shock.  They cheered