Two of us sat on top, for it was a gorgeous night.  We rattled over the pave alongside multitudinous transport sleeping at the side of the road—­through Metern, through Caestre of pleasant memories, and south to Hazebrouck.  Our driver was a man of mark, a racing motorist in times of peace.  He left the other buses and swung along rapidly by himself.  He slowed down for nothing.  Just before Hazebrouck we caught up a French convoy.  I do not quite know what happened.  The Frenchmen took cover in one ditch.  We swayed past, half in the other, at a good round pace.  Waggons seemed to disappear under our wheels, and frightened horses plunged violently across the road.  But we passed them without a scratch—­to be stopped by the level-crossing at Hazebrouck.  There we filled up with coffee and cognac, while the driver told us of his adventures in Antwerp.

We rumbled out of Hazebrouck towards St Omer.  It was a clear dawn in splashes of pure colour.  All the villages were peaceful, untouched by war.  When we came to St Omer it was quite light.  All the soldiers in the town looked amateurish.  We could not make out what was the matter with them, until somebody noticed that their buttons shone.  We drew up in the square, the happiest crew imaginable, but with a dignity such as befitted chosen N.C.O.’s and officers.

That was the first time I saw St Omer.  When last I came to it I saw little, because I arrived in a motor-ambulance and left in a hospital-train.

The top of the bus was crowded, and we talked “shop” together. Sixth Division’s having a pretty cushy time, what?—­So you were at Mons! (in a tone of respect)—­I don’t mind their shells, and I don’t mind their machine-guns, but their Minenwerfer are the frozen limit!—­I suppose there’s no chance of our missing the boat.  Yes, it was a pretty fair scrap—­Smith?  He’s gone.  Silly fool, wanted to have a look round—­Full of buck?  Rather!  Yes, heard there’s a pretty good show on at the Frivolity—­Beastly cold on top of this old wheezer.

It was, but none of us cared a scrap.  We looked at the sign-posts that showed the distance to Boulogne, and then pretended that we had not seen them.  Lurching and skidding and toiling we came to the top of the hill above Boulogne.  With screaming brakes we rattled down to the harbour.  That old sinner, Sergeant Maguire, who was in charge of us corporals, made all arrangements efficiently.  We embarked, and after a year of Sundays cast off.

There was a certain swell on, and Mr Potter, the bravest of men, grew greener and greener.  My faith in mankind went.

We saw a dark line on the horizon.

“By Jove, there’s England!” We all produced our field-glasses and looked through them very carefully for quite a long time.

“So it is.  Funny old country”—­a pause—­“Makes one feel quite sentimental, just like the books.  That’s what we’re fighting for, I suppose.  Wouldn’t fight for dirty old Dover!  Wonder if they still charge you a penny for each sardine.  I suppose we’ll have to draw the blinds all the way up to London.  Not a safe country by any means, far rather stop in the jolly old trenches.”