Our barracks at Dover was on the heights of the cliffs, and on clear days we could look across the Channel and see the dim outlines of France.  It was a fascination for all of us to look away over there and to wonder what fortunes were to come to us on the battle fields of Europe.  It was perhaps as well that none of us had imagination enough to visualize the things that were ahead.

I found the rookies at Dover a jolly, companionable lot, and I never found the routine irksome.  We were up at five-thirty, had cocoa and biscuits, and then an hour of physical drill or bayonet practice.  At eight came breakfast of tea, bacon, and bread, and then we drilled until twelve.  Dinner.  Out again on the parade ground until three thirty.  After that we were free.

Nights we would go into Dover and sit around the “pubs” drinking ale, or “ayle” as the cockney says it.

After a few weeks, when we were hardened somewhat, they began to inflict us with the torture known as “night ops.”  That means going out at ten o’clock under full pack, hiking several miles, and then “manning” the trenches around the town and returning to barracks at three A.M.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if we had been excused parades the following day.  But no.  We had the same old drills except the early one, but were allowed to “kip” until seven.

In the two months I completed the musketry course, was a good bayonet man, and was well grounded in bombing practice.  Besides that I was as hard as nails and had learned thoroughly the system of British discipline.

I had supposed that it took at least six months to make a soldier,—­in fact had been told that one could not be turned out who would be ten per cent efficient in less than that time.  That old theory is all wrong.  Modern warfare changes so fast that the only thing that can be taught a man is the basic principles of discipline, bombing, trench warfare, and musketry.  Give him those things, a well-conditioned body, and a baptism of fire, and he will be right there with the veterans, doing his bit.

Two months was all our crowd got at any rate, and they were as good as the best, if I do say it.

My training ended abruptly with a furlough of five days for Embarkation Leave, that is, leave before going to France.  This is a sort of good-by vacation.  Most fellows realize fully that it may be their last look at Blighty, and they take it rather solemnly.  To a stranger without friends in England I can imagine that this Embarkation Leave would be either a mighty lonesome, dismal affair, or a stretch of desperate, homesick dissipation.  A chap does want to say good-by to some one before he goes away, perhaps to die.  He wants to be loved and to have some one sorry that he is going.

I was invited by one of my chums to spend the leave with him at his home in Southall, Middlesex.  His father, mother and sister welcomed me in a way that made me know it was my home from the minute I entered the door.  They took me into their hearts with a simple hospitality and whole-souled kindness that I can never forget.  I was a stranger in a strange land and they made me one of their own.  I shall never be able to repay all the loving thoughts and deeds of that family and shall remember them while I live.  My chum’s mother I call Mother too.  It is to her that I have dedicated this book.