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So urgent was the appeal for these commodities, that the men took it for granted that the entire population of France was starving, and handed over that somewhat elusive
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of the previous day's ration, or any that remained of it. As the day wore on and word was received that there would be no move until the following morning, some of the officers were allowed into town in the afternoon. Boulogne in war-time is not an interesting place, and an hour was sufficient for exploration purposes. With the exception of a few French territorials, guarding the bridges and railway station, the town seemed to be entirely handed over to the British, whose motor ambulances glided in every direction. The
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Cambria, with her green and white topsides and large Red Cross flag at her masthead, lay alongside at the quay, a sight to make one home-sick, which brought one's mind back to Dublin Bay and Kingstown Harbour in the days of peace. It rained off and on all day, and was bitterly cold, an early foretaste of the bitter winds we were to experience in France. We fell in next morning, Wednesday, 6th October, at 10-15, and marched to the Central station, where we entrained. Speculation was rife as to where we were going, whether Belgium, which savoured of Ypres and all that that name implied, or the new line between Arras and the Somme. The latter was a sector taken over by the British from the French in the July preceding, and had the name of being quiet and pleasant compared to the more northerly parts of the line. As the day wore on and we steamed South through Abbeville, and finally came to Amiens, there was no doubt as to our destination. From Amiens we moved on to a side line, and at 6-15 came to Flesselles, a small town about 15 miles south of Amiens, where we detrained. It was a lovely autumn evening, and with a slight breeze blowing from the East, and as we stood fallen in ready to move off from the station, we heard the low rumble and occasional growl of a big gun. From Flesselles we had to march some twelve kilometres to Rubenpre, which was to be our billeting town. Very heavily laden as we all were, officers and men, again the mistake was made of setting too fast a pace. It was an exceptionally warm evening, the men were tired, hungry and thirsty, after the long train journey, and as an hour, and then two, passed by, and we still appeared to be some distance from our town, the softer hearts in the battalion collapsed. There is no necessity to dwell on the unpleasant memories of our first route march in France; it was the most trying experience for both officers and men that we had for many a long day. As we marched East, and as the night grew darker, the flares, and the lurid flashes of gunfire became more vivid, and helped to keep up the interest of the men and distract their attention from the general weariness; at any rate we were, after eleven months' training, getting to the
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Front
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Hanging over your beds in your billets you will find crucifixes, pictures of the Virgin Mary, and the Saints, and other emblems of the Roman Catholic Church and religion. You will respect these emblems, and remember that you and your Allies have come to free these people from the Germans. So throughout that march from Flesselles to Rubenpré, the men had before them the vision and anticipation of feather beds which all the saints in the catalogue might adorn, so long as it was a bed. No such luck, however, as feather beds could be hoped for in the land which the men had already christened
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No man's land. So dark was the night, and so impossible to find were the billets allotted to each Company, that after nearly half-an-hour's halt at the entrance to the village, Company Commanders and Officers took the matter into their own hands, threw off their packs and equipment on the side of the street, and led their worn-out men down the village. They burst open the doors of barns, and put in, here 20, there 30, men, despite the irate remonstrances of the owners, often punctuated by some shrill scream from some female proprietor, who thought that at any rate her last hour had come. At length, on straw and hay, on floors hard and soft, everyone found a bed, and, tired, as they were, one or two were heard to mutter, Orangemen though they might be, that they wouldn't mind a bed even if the picture of the Pope himself hung at the head. In this part of France there are no farms. The country is dotted at intervals of a kilometre or two with villages, some small, some large, mostly the same in appearance, with their orchards, and grey church spires sticking up above the knots of trees. All round these villages the country stretches away in gently rolling plains, like a great checkerboard, no ditches or hedges, reminding one of what England must have looked like in the days of the