Then there was the Honey Question.  There were bees in the village and we had no honey.  The reputation of George was at stake.  So one night we warily and silently approached some hives with candles; unfortunately we were interfered with by the military police.  Still an expedition into the hedgerows and woods always had an excuse in time of war, and we made it.

The village of Acy, high on the hill above the road to Venizel, was the richest hunting-ground.  First, there was a bread-shop open at certain hours.  George was often late, and, disdaining to take his place in the long line of those who were not despatch riders, would march straight in and demand bread for one of his two worthy charities.  When these were looked upon with suspicion he engineered a very friendly understanding with the baker’s wife.

Then there was a dark little shop where you could buy good red wine, and beyond it a farmer with vegetables to sell.  But his greatest find was the chateau, which clung to the edge of the hill and overlooked the valley of the Aisne to Conde Fort and the Hill of Chivres.

Searching one morning amongst a pile of captured and derelict stuff we discovered a canvas bath.  Now, not one of us had had a bath since Havre, so we made arrangements.  Three of us took the bath up to the chateau, then inhabited by a caretaker and his wife.  They brought us great pails of hot water, and for the first time in a month we were clean.  Then we had tea and talked about the Germans who had passed through.  The German officer, the old woman told us, had done them no harm, though he had seized everything without paying a sou.  Just before he left bad news was brought to him.  He grew very angry, and shouted to her as he rode off—­

“You shall suffer for this when we return;” but she laughed and shouted back at him, mocking—­

“When you return!”

And then the English came.

After tea we smoked our pipes in the terraced garden, watched the Germans shelling one of our aeroplanes, examined the German lines, and meditated in safety on the war just like newspaper correspondents.

It was in Serches itself that George received the surprise of his life.  He was after potatoes, and seeing a likely-looking old man pass, D.H.Q. ran after him.  In his best French—­“Avez-vous pommes-de-terre a vendre?” The old man turned round, smiled, and replied in broadest Yorkshire, “Wanting any ’taters?” George collapsed.

It seems that the old fellow had settled in Serches years and years before.  He had a very pretty daughter, who spoke a delectable mixture of Yorkshire and the local dialect.  Of course she was suspected of being a spy—­in fact, probably was—­so the military police were set to watch her,—­a job, I gathered later from one of them, much to their liking.