During the first days on this monotonous river, the days when we attacked, the staff of our right brigade advanced for a time into open country and took cover behind the right haystack of three.  To this brigade Huggie took a message early one morning, and continued to take messages throughout the day because—­this was his excuse—­he knew the road.  It was not until several months later that I gathered by chance what had happened on that day, for Huggie, quite the best despatch rider in our Division, would always thwart my journalistic curiosity by refusing resolutely to talk about himself.  The rest of us swopped yarns of an evening.

These haystacks were unhealthy:  so was the approach to them.  First one haystack was destroyed.  The brigade went to the next.  This second was blown to bits.  The staff took refuge behind the third.  In my letters I have told you of the good things the other despatch riders in our Division have done, but to keep up continuous communication all day with this be-shelled and refugee brigade was as fine a piece of despatch riding as any.  It received its proper reward, as you know.

Afterwards the brigade emigrated to a hillside above Ciry, and remained there.  Now the German gunner in whose sector Ciry was included should not be dismissed with a word.  He was a man of uncertain temper and accurate shooting, for in the first place he would shell Ciry for a few minutes at any odd time, and in the second he knocked a gun out in three shells and registered accurately, when he pleased, upon the road that led up a precipitous hill to the edge of the Serches hollow.  On this hill he smashed some regimental transport to firewood and killed a dozen horses, and during one of his sudden shellings of the village blew a house to pieces just as a despatch rider, who had been told the village that morning was healthy, rode by.

You must not think that we were for ever scudding along, like the typical “motor-cyclist scout” in the advertisements, surrounded with shells.  There was many a dull ride even to Bucy-le-Long.  An expedition to the Div.  Train (no longer an errant and untraceable vagabond) was safe and produced jam.  A ride to Corps Headquarters was only dangerous because of the innumerable and bloodthirsty sentries surrounding that stronghold.

One afternoon a report came through to the Division that a motor-car lay derelict at Missy.  So “the skipper” called for two volunteers who should be expert mechanics.  Divisional Signal companies were not then provided with cars, and if the C.O. wished to go out to a brigade, which might be up to or over eight miles away, he was compelled to ride a horse, experiment with a motor-cycle that was probably badly missed by the despatch riders, or borrow one of the staff cars.  Huggie and the elder Cecil volunteered.

As soon as it was dusk they rode down to Sermoise, and crossing by the ferry—­it was perilous in the dark—­made their way with difficulty across country to Missy, which was then almost in front of our lines.  They found the car, and examining it discovered that to outward appearance it was sound,—­a great moment when after a turn or two of the handle the engine roared into the darkness, but the noise was alarming enough because the Germans were none too far away.