The train shuffled out of the station just before dawn.  We slept a bit, and then, just as it was getting light, started our pipes and began to talk of the future.

The general opinion favoured Ostend, though a sergeant hazarded that we were going to be shipped swiftly across to England to defend the East Coast.  This suggestion was voted impossible and tactless—­at least, we didn’t put it quite like that.  Ostend it was going to be—­train to Abbeville, and then boat to Ostend, and a rapid march against the German flank.

The discussion was interrupted by somebody saying he had heard from somebody who had been told by his Major, that 60,000 Germans had been killed in the last two days, Von Kluck had been killed by a lucky shell, and the Crown Prince had committed suicide.  We were bringing the cynicism of youth to bear on the trustfulness of a mature mercenary when the train arrived at Amiens.

Some washed.  Some meditated on a train of French wounded and another train of Belgian refugees, humble and pitiful objects, very smelly.  Two, not waiting for orders, rushed to the buffet and bought beer and sardines and chocolate and bread.  One of these was cut off from his waggon by a long goods train that passed through, but he knew the ways of military trains, waited till the goods had passed, then ran after us and caught us up after a mile’s jog-trot.  The good people of Amiens, who had not so very long before been delivered from the Germans, were exceedingly affectionate, and threw us fruit, flowers, and kisses.  Those under military age shrieked at the top of their shrill little trebles—­

Engleesh—­Tipperary—­Biskeet—­Biskeet—­Souvenir.

We have never understood the cry of “Biskeet.”  The fat little fellows were obviously well nourished.  Perhaps, dog-like, they buried their biscuits with a thought for the time when the English should be forgotten and hunger should take their place as something very present.

So joyously we were rushed north at about five miles an hour, or eight kilometres per hour, which sounds better.  Early in the afternoon we came to Abbeville, a hot and quiet station, and, with the aid of some London Scottish, disembarked.  From these Scots we learnt that the French were having a rough time just north of Arras, that train-load upon train-load of wounded had come through, that our Corps (the 2nd) was going up to help.

So even now we do not know whether we really were going to Ostend and were diverted to the La Bassee district to help the French who had got themselves into a hole, or whether Ostend was somebody’s little tale.

We rode through the town to the Great Barracks, where we were given a large and clean ward.  The washing arrangements were sumptuous and we had truckle-beds to sleep upon, but the sanitation, as everywhere in France, was vile.  We kicked a football about on the drill-ground.  Then some of us went down into the town, while the rest of us waited impatiently for them to come back, taking a despatch or two in the meanwhile.