We now heard that “the Division” was convinced that we were going to make a dash for Ostend, and rumour seemed to crystallise into truth when orders came that we were to entrain that night at Pont St Maxence.

The despatch riders rode ahead of the column, and received a joyous welcome in the town.  We stalked bravely into a cafe, and drank loud and hearty toasts with some friendly but rather drunk French soldiers.  Gascons they were, and d’Artagnans all, from their proper boasting—­the heart of a lion and the cunning of a fox, they said.  One of us was called into a more sober chamber to drink ceremonious toasts in champagne with their officers.  In the street another of us—­I would not give even his initial—­selecting the leading representative of young, demure, and ornamental maidenhood, embraced her in the middle of the most admiring crowd I have ever seen, while the rest of us explained to a half-angry mother that her daughter should be proud and happy—­as indeed she was—­to represent the respectable and historic town of Pont St Maxence.

Then, amidst shrieks and cheers and cries of “Brave Tommy” and “We love you,” the despatch riders of the finest and most famous of all Divisions rode singing to the station, where we slept peacefully on straw beside a large fire until the train came in and the Signal Company arrived.

Our entraining at Pont St Maxence began with a carouse and ended with a cumulative disappointment.  In the middle was the usual wait, a tiresome but necessary part of all military evolutions.  To entrain a Signal Company sounds so simple.  Here is the company—­there is the train.  But first comes the man-handling of cable-carts on to trucks that were built for the languid conveyance of perambulators.  Then follows a little horseplay, and only those who, like myself, regard horses as unmechanical and self-willed instruments of war, know how terrifying a sight and how difficult a task the emboxing of a company’s horses can be.  Motor-cycles are heavy and have to be lifted, but they do not make noises and jib and rear, and look every moment as if they were going to fall backward on to the interested spectator.

We despatch riders fetched a great deal of straw and made ourselves comfortable in one of those waggons that are marked outside, with such splendid optimism—­

     Chevaux . . . . 8
     Hommes . . . . 40-5

With our friend the Post-Sergeant and his underling there were roughly a dozen of us and no superfluity of space, but, seeing men wandering fiercely up and down the train under the command of our Sergeant-Major, we took in a H.Q. clerk.  This ruffled us, but it had to be done.  The Sergeant-Major came to our waggon.  We stood at the door and pointed out to him that we had in our waggon not only all the despatch riders, but also the whole of the Postal and Headquarters Staffs.  He said nothing to us—­only told ten more men to get in.  Finally we were twenty-five in all, with full equipment.  Thinking of the 40-5 we settled down and managed to effect a compromise of room which, to our amazement, left us infinitely more comfortable than we had been in the III^{me} coming up from Havre to Landrecies.