They started on their journey home—­by St Marguerite and Venizel.  Just after they had left the village the beam of an alien searchlight came sweeping along the road.  Before the glare had discovered their nakedness they had pulled the car to the side of the road under the shelter of the hedge nearest the Germans, and jumping down had taken cover.  By all the rules of the game it was impossible to drive a car that was not exactly silent along the road from Missy to Hell’s Own Corner.  The searchlight should have found them, and the fire of the German snipers should have done the rest.  But their luck was in, and they made no mistakes.  Immediately the beam had passed they leaped on to the car and tore scathless into St Marguerite and so back to the Division.

After its capture the car was exhibited with enormous pride to all that passed by.  We should not have been better pleased if we had captured the whole Prussian Guard.  For prisoners disappear and cannot always be shown to prove the tale.  The car was an [Greek:  aei ktema].

In the morning we rode down into Sermoise for the motor-cycles.  Sermoise had been shelled to pieces, but I shall never forget a brave and obstinate inhabitant who, when a shell had gone through his roof and demolished the interior of his house, began to patch his roof with bully-tins and biscuit-tins that he might at least have shelter from the rain.

Elated with our capture of the car we scented greater victories.  We heard of a motor-boat on the river near Missy, and were filled with visions of an armoured motor-boat, stuffed with machine-guns, plying up and down the Aisne.  Huggie and another made the excursion.  The boat was in an exposed and altogether unhealthy position, but they examined it, and found that there was no starting-handle.  In the village forge, which was very completely fitted up, they made one that did not fit, and then another, but however much they coaxed, the engine would not start.  So regretfully they left it.

To these adventures there was a quiet background of uncomfortable but pleasant existence.  Life on the Aisne was like a “reading party”—­only instead of working at our books we worked at soldiering.

The night that Huggie and I slept down at Ciry, the rest of the despatch riders, certain that we were taken, encamped at Ferme d’Epitaphe, for the flooded roads were impassable.  There we found them in the morning, and discovered they had prepared the most gorgeous stew of all my recollection.

Now, to make a good stew is a fine art, for a stew is not merely a conglomeration of bully and vegetables and water boiled together until it looks nice.  First the potatoes must be cut out to a proper size and put in; of potatoes there cannot be too many.  As for the vegetables, a superfluity of carrots is a burden, and turnips should be used with a sparing hand.  A full flavour of leek is a great joy.  When the vegetables are nearly boiled, the dixie should be carefully examined by all to see if it is necessary to add water.  If in doubt spare the water, for a rich thick gravy is much to be desired.  Add bully, and get your canteens ready.