The march through the cobbled streets of Havre rapidly developed into a fiasco.  This was one of the first, if not the very first, landing of British Troops in France, and to the French it was a novelty, calling for a tremendous display of open-armed welcome.  Children rushed from the houses, and fell upon the men crying for “souvenirs.”  Ladies pursued them with basins full of wine and what they were pleased to call beer.  Men were literally carried from the ranks, under the eyes of their Officers, and borne in triumph into houses and inns.  What with the heat of the day and the heaviness of the equipment and the after-effects of the noisome deck, the men could scarcely be blamed for availing themselves of such hospitality, though to drink intoxicants on the march is suicidal.  Men “fell out,” first by ones and twos, then by whole half-dozens and dozens.  The Subaltern himself was scarcely strong enough to stagger up the long hills at the back of the town, let alone worrying about his men.  The Colonel was aghast, and very furious.  He couldn’t understand it. (He was riding.)

The camp was prepared for the troops in a wonderfully complete fashion—­not the least thing seemed to have been forgotten.  The men, stripped of their boots, coats and equipments, were resting in the shade of the tents.  A caterer from Havre had come up to supply the Mess, and the Subaltern was able to procure from him a bottle of rather heady claret, which, as he was thirsty and exhausted, he consumed too rapidly, and found himself hopelessly inebriate.  Luckily there was nothing to do, so he slept for many hours.

Waking up in the cool of the evening he heard the voices of another Second-Lieutenant and a reservist Subaltern talking about some people he knew near his home.  It was good to forget about wars and soldiers, and everything that filled so amply the present and future, and to lose himself in pleasant talk of pleasant things at home....  The dinner provided by the French caterer was very French, and altogether the last sort of meal that a young gentleman suffering from anti-enteric inoculation ought to have indulged in.  Everything conspired to make him worse, and what with the heat and the malady, he spent a very miserable time.

After about two days’ stay, the Battalion moved away from the rest camp, and, setting out before dawn, marched back through those fatal streets of Havre, this time deserted in the moonlight, to a sort of shed, called by the French authorities a troop station.  Here as usual the train was waiting, and the men had but to be put in.  The carriages could not be called luxurious; to be frank, they were cattle-trucks.  But it takes more than that to damp the spirits of Mr. Thomas Atkins.  Cries imitating the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep broke out from the trucks!

The train moved out of the depot, and wended its way in the most casual manner through the streets of Havre.  This so amused Tommy that he roared with laughter.  The people who rushed to give the train a send-off, with many cries of “Vive les Anglais,” “A bas les Bosches,” were greeted with more bleatings and brayings.