I pushed through the traffic a little and came upon a captain and a subaltern making their way desperately back.  I do not know who they were, but I heard a scrap of what they said—­

“We must get back for it,” said the captain.

“We shall never return,” replied the subaltern gravely.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the captain.

“It doesn’t matter,” echoed the subaltern.

But I do not think the gun could have been saved.

About six of us collected in a little bunch at the side of the road.  On our left we saw a line of infantry running.  The road itself was impassable.  So we determined to strike off to the right.  I led the way, and though we had not the remotest conception whether we should meet British or German, we eventually found our way to 2nd Corps H.Q.

I have only a dim remembrance of what happened there.  I went into the signal-office and reported that, so far as I knew, the 5th Division was in flight along the Reumont-Saint-Quentin road.

The sergeant in charge of the 2nd Corps Motor-cyclists offered us some hard-boiled eggs and put me in charge of our lot.  Then off we went, and hitting the main road just ahead of our muddled column, halted at the desolate little village of Estrees.

It now began to rain.

Soon the column came pouring past, so miserably and so slowly,—­lorries, transport, guns, limbers, small batches of infantrymen, crowds of stragglers.  All were cursing the French, for right through the battle we had expected the French to come up on our right wing.  There had been a whole corps of cavalry a few miles away, but in reply to our urgent request for help their general had reported that his horses were too tired.  How we cursed them and cursed them.

After a weary hour’s wait our subaltern came up, and, at my request, sent me to look for the captain.  I found him about two miles this side of Reumont, endeavouring vainly to make some sort of ordered procession out of the almost comically patchwork medley.  Later I heard that the last four hundred yards of the column had been shelled to destruction as it was leaving Reumont, and a tale is told—­probably without truth—­of an officer shooting the driver of the leading motor-lorry in a hopeless endeavour to get some ammunition into the firing line.

I scooted back and told the others that our captain was still alive, and a little later we pushed off into the flood.  It was now getting dark, and the rain, which had held off for a little, was pouring down.

Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage, and the Signal Company outspanned.

We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp straw and putting on all available bits of clothing.  But soon we were all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered perilously near.  One hungry mare started eating the straw that was covering my chest.  That was enough.  Desperately we got up to look round for some shelter, and George, our champion “scrounger,” discovered a chicken-house.  It is true there were nineteen fowls in it.  They died a silent and, I hope, a painless death.