At last, about three o’clock in the afternoon, we reached the outskirts of Bethune.  The sound of the guns was very near, and to the east of the town we could see an aeroplane haloed in bursting shrapnel.

The Staff took refuge first in an unsavoury field and afterwards in a little house.  Despatch after despatch until evening—­and then, ordered to remain behind to direct others, and cheered by the sight of our most revered and most short-sighted staff-officer walking straight over a little bridge into a deep, muddy, and stinking ditch, I took refuge in the kitchen and experienced the discreeter pleasures of “the Force.”  The handmaidens brought coffee, and brushed me and washed me and talked to me.  I was sorry when the time came for me to resume my beat, or rather to ride with Cecil after the Division.

We passed some Turcos, happy-looking children but ill companions in a hostile country, and some Spahis with flowing burnous, who looked ridiculously out of place, and then, after a long search—­it was dark on the road and very cold—­we found the Division.

I dined off a maconochie, and was wondering whether I dare lie down to sleep, when I was called out to take a message to and remain at the 13th Brigade.  It was a bad night.  Never was a man so cold in his life, and the brigade had taken up its quarters in a farm situated in the centre of a very labyrinth of country roads.  But I had four hours’ sleep when I got there, while the others were up all the night.

There was no hurry in the morning.  The orders were to join the Division at a bridge just outside Bethune, a point which they could not possibly reach before ten.  So I got up late and had a glorious meal of soup, omelette, and fruit in the town, waited on by a most excellent flapper who wanted to know everything about everything.  I reported at the Signal Office, then occupying the lodge of the town cemetery, and was sent off to catch the Devons.  At the village where I waited for them I found some Cuirassiers, genial fellows; but living helios in the burning sun.  When I returned the Division had moved along the north bank of the Canal to Beuvry Station.  The post picked us up, and in the joyous possession of two parcels and some letters I unpacked my kit.  We all settled down on some moderately clean straw in the waiting-room of the station, and there we remained for three full weeks.

Men talk of the battle of Ypres[15] as the finest achievement of the British Army.  There was one brigade there that had a past.  It had fought at Mons and Le Cateau, and then plugged away cheerfully through the Retreat and the Advance.  What was left of it had fought stiffly on the Aisne.  Some hard marching, a train journey, more hard marching, and it was thrown into action at La Bassee.  There it fought itself to a standstill.  It was attacked and attacked until, shattered, it was driven back one wild night.  It was rallied, and turning on the enemy held them.  More hard marching—­a couple of days’ rest, and it staggered into action at Ypres, and somehow—­no one knows how—­it held its bit of line.  A brigade called by the same name, consisting of the same regiments, commanded by the same general, but containing scarce a man of those who had come out in August, marched very proudly away from Ypres and went—­not to rest—­but to hold another bit of the line.