This particular stew made by Orr was epic.  At all other good stews it was recalled and discussed, but never did a stew come up to the stew that we so scrupulously divided among us on the bright morning of Sept. 12, 1914, at Ferme d’Epitaphe, above Serches.

Later in the day we took over our billet, a large bicycle shed behind the school in which D.H.Q. were installed.  The front of it was open, the floor was asphalt, the roof dripped, and we shared it with the Divisional Cyclists.  So close were we packed that you could not turn in your sleep without raising a storm of curses, and if you were called out of nights you were compelled to walk boldly over prostrate bodies, trusting to luck that you did not step on the face of a man who woke suddenly and was bigger than yourself.

On the right of our dwelling was a little shed that was once used as a guard-room.  A man and woman were brought in under suspicion of espionage.  The woman was put in the shed.  There she shrieked the night through, shouted for her husband (he had an ugly-sounding name that we could not understand), and literally tore her hair.  The language of the Cyclists was an education even to the despatch riders, who once had been told by their Quartermaster-Sergeant that they left the cavalry standing.  Finally, we petitioned for her removal, and once again slept peacefully.  The Court of Inquiry found the couple were not spies, but unmarried.  So it married them and let them go.

The Cyclists were marvellous and indefatigable makers of tea.  At any unearthly hour you might be gently shaken by the shoulder and a voice would whisper—­

“‘Ave a drop o’ tea—­real ‘ot and plenty o’ sugar.”

Never have I come back from a night ride without finding a couple of cyclists squatting out in the gloom round a little bright fire of their own making, with some fine hot tea.  Wherever they go may they never want a drink!

And never shall I forget that fine bit of roast pork my friend Sergeant Croucher insisted on sharing with me one evening!  I had not tasted fresh meat for weeks.

George was our unofficial Quartermaster.  He was and is a great man, always cheerful, able to coax bread, vegetables, wine, and other luxuries out of the most hardened old Frenchwoman; and the French, though ever pathetically eager to do anything for us, always charged a good round price.  Candles were a great necessity, and could not be bought, but George always had candles for us.  I forget at the moment whether they were for “Le General French, qui arrive,” or “Les pauvres, pauvres, blesses.”  On two occasions George’s genius brought him into trouble, for military law consists mainly of the commandment—­

“Thou shalt not allow thyself to be found out.”

We were short of firewood.  So George discovered that his engine wanted a little tuning, and started out on a voyage of discovery.  Soon he came upon a heap of neatly cut, neatly piled wood.  He loaded up until he heard shouts, then fled.  That night we had a great fire, but in the morning came tribulation.  The shouts were the shouts of the C.R.E. and the wood was an embryonic bridge.  Severely reprimanded.