Sometimes two or three of us would ride to a sand-pit on Mont Noir and blaze away with our revolvers.  Incidentally, not one of us had fired a shot in anger since the war began.  We treated our revolvers as unnecessary luggage.  In time we became skilled in their use, and thereafter learnt to keep them moderately clean.  We had been served out with revolvers at Chatham, but had never practised with them—­except at Carlow for a morning, and then we were suffering from the effects of inoculation.  They may be useful when we get to Germany.

Shopping in Bailleul was less strenuous.  We were always buying something for supper—­a kilo of liver, some onions, a few sausages—­anything that could be cooked by the unskilled on a paraffin-stove.  Then after shopping there were cafes we could drop into, sure of a welcome.  It was impossible to live from November to March “within easy reach of town” and not make friends.

Milk for tea came from the farm in which No. 1 Section of the Signal Company was billeted.  When first we were quartered at St Jans this section wallowed in some mud a little above the chateau.

Because I had managed to make myself understood to some German prisoners, I was looked upon as a great linguist, and vulgarly credited with a knowledge of all the European languages.  So I was sent, together with the Quartermaster-Sergeant and the Sergeant-Major, on billeting expeditions.  Arranging for quarters at the farm, I made great friends with the farmer.  He was a tall, thin, lithe old man, with a crumpled wife and prodigiously large family.  He was a man of affairs, too, for once a month in peace time he would drive into Hazebrouck.  While his wife got me the milk, we used to sit by the fire and smoke our pipes and discuss the terrible war and the newspapers.  One of the most embarrassing moments I have ever experienced was when he bade me tell the sergeants that he regarded them as brothers, and loved them all.  I said it first in French, that he might hear, and then in English.  The sergeants blushed, while the old man beamed.

We loved the Flemish, and, for the most part, they loved us.  When British soldiers arrived in a village the men became clean, the women smart, and the boys inevitably procured putties and wore them with pride.  The British soldier is certainly not insular.  He tries hard to understand the words and ways of his neighbours.  He has a rough tact, a crude courtesy, and a great-hearted generosity.  In theory no task could be more difficult than the administration of the British Area.  Even a friendly military occupation is an uncomfortable burden.  Yet never have I known any case of real ill-feeling.  Personally, during my nine months at the Front, I have always received from the French and the Belgians amazing kindness and consideration.  As an officer I came into contact with village and town officials over questions of billets and requisitions.  In any difficulty I received courteous assistance.  No trouble was too great; no time was too valuable....