So the time passed without any excitement until November 23, when first we caught hold of a definite rumour that we should be granted leave.  We existed in restless excitement until the 27th.  On that great day we were told that we should be allowed a week’s leave.  We solemnly drew lots, and I drew the second batch.

We left the Convent at Locre in a dream, and took up quarters at St Jans Cappel, two miles west of Bailleul.  We hardly noticed that our billet was confined and uncomfortable.  Certainly we never realised that we should stop there until the spring.  The first batch went off hilariously, and with slow pace our day drew nearer and nearer.

You may think it a little needless of me to write about my leave, if you do not remember that we despatch riders of the Fifth Division enlisted on or about August 6.  Few then realised that England had gone to war.  Nobody realised what sort of a war the war was going to be.  When we returned in the beginning of December we were Martians.  For three months we had been vividly soldiers.  We had been fighting not in a savage country, but in a civilised country burnt by war; and it was because of this that the sights of war had struck us so fiercely that when we came back our voyage in the good ship Archimedes seemed so many years distant.  Besides, if I were not to tell you of my leave it would make such a gap in my memories that I should scarcely know how to continue my tale....

The week dragged more slowly than I can describe.  Short-handed, we had plenty of work to do, but it was all routine work, which gave us too much time to think.  There was also a crazy doubt of the others’ return.  They were due back a few hours before we started.  If they fell ill or missed the boat...!  And the fools were motor-cycling to and from Boulogne!

On the great night we prepared some food for them, and having packed our kits, tried to sleep.  As the hour drew near we listened excitedly for the noise of their engines.  Several false alarms disturbed us:  first, a despatch rider from the Third Division, and then another from the Corps.  At last we heard the purr of three engines together, and then a moment later the faint rustle of others in the distance.  We recognised the engines and jumped up.  All the birds came home save one.  George had never quite recovered from his riding exercises.  Slight blood poisoning had set in.  His leave had been extended at home.  So poor “Tommy,” who had joined us at Beuvry, was compelled to remain behind.

Violent question and answer for an hour, then we piled ourselves on our light lorry.  Singing like angels we rattled into Bailleul.  Just opposite Corps Headquarters, our old billet, we found a little crowd waiting.  None of us could talk much for the excitement.  We just wandered about greeting friends.  I met again that stoutest of warriors, Mr Potter of the 15th Artillery Brigade, a friend of Festubert days.  Then a battalion of French infantry passed through, gallant and cheerful men.  At last the old dark-green buses rolled up, and about three in the morning we pounded off at a good fifteen miles an hour along the Cassel road.