It was the roughest crossing I’ve ever experienced, and there was no time to indulge in “that periscope feeling,” so aptly described by Bairnsfather; we were too busy exercising Christian Science on our “innards” and trying not to think of all the indigestible things we’d eaten the night before!  We rose on mountains of waves one moment and then descended into positive valleys the next.  I swear I would have been perfectly all right if I had not heard an officer say “I hope it will not be too rough to get into Boulogne harbour.  The last time I crossed we had to return to Folkestone!” * * * * Luckily his fears were incorrect, and at last we arrived in the harbour, and I never was so glad to see France in all my life!  The F.A.N.Y.s had almost given us up for good, and were all very envious when they heard of our adventures.

Towards the end of that month the “Britannic,” a hospital ship, was torpedoed.  As a preventive measure against future outrages of the kind (not that it would have made the Germans hesitate for a moment) twenty prisoners were detailed to accompany each hospital ship on the voyage to England.  These men, under one of their own Sergeant-Majors, sat on the edge of the platform until all the wounded were on board, and then were marched on into a little wooden shelter specially erected.  As they sat on the edge, their feet rested on the narrow quay along which we drove, and I loved to go as near as possible and pretend I was going over them, just for the fun of watching the Boches roll on their backs in terror with their feet high in the air.  A new method of saying Kamerad!  Those prisoners did not care for me very much, I don’t think, and I always hope I shan’t meet any of them apres la guerre.  Unfortunately this pastime was stopped by the vigilant E.M.O.

My hut was closed for “winter decorations,” and the creme de menthe coloured panthers were covered up by a hunting frieze.  It was a priceless show, one of the field appearing in a chic pair of red gloves!  I suppose they had some extra paint over from the pink coats.  Scene I. was the meet, with the fox lurking well within sight behind a small gorse bush, but funnily enough not a hound got wind of him.  Scene III. was a good water-jump where one of the field had taken a toss right into the middle of a stream.  Considering the sandy spot he had chosen as a take-off, he had no one to thank but himself.  A lady further up on a grey, obviously suffering from spavin, was sailing over like a two-year old.  The last scene was of course a kill, the gentleman in the pink gloves on the black horse being well to the fore.  Altogether it was most pleasing.  Silk hunting “hankies” in yellow and other vivid colours, ditto with full field, took the place of the now chilly looking Reckitt’s blue, and a Turkey rug on the floor completed the transformation.

When an early evacuation was not in progress, breakfast was at eight o’clock, and at 10 minutes to, the whistles went for parade, which was held in the square just in front of the cars.  Those who were late were put on fatigues without more ado, but in the ordinary way if there were no delinquents we took it in turns, two every day.