War was declared. All those of us who were at Balliol together
telephoned to one another so that we might enlist together. Physical
coward or no physical coward--it obviously had to be done. Teddy and
Alec were going into the London Scottish. Early in the morning I started
for London to join them, but on the way up I read the paragraph in which
the War Office appealed for motor-cyclists. So I went straight to
Scotland Yard. There I was taken up to a large room full of benches
crammed with all sorts and conditions of men. The old fellow on my right
was a sign-writer. On my left was a racing motor-cyclist. We waited for
hours. Frightened-looking men were sworn in and one phenomenally grave
small boy. Later I should have said that a really fine stamp of man was
enlisting. Then they seemed to me a shabby crew.

At last we were sent downstairs, and told to strip and array ourselves
in moderately dirty blue dressing-gowns. Away from the formality of the
other room we sang little songs, and made the worst jokes in the
world--being continually interrupted by an irritable sergeant, whom we
called "dearie." One or two men were feverishly arguing whether certain
physical deficiencies would be passed. Nobody said a word of his reason
for enlisting except the sign-writer, whose wages had been low.

The racing motor-cyclist and I were passed one after another, and,
receiving warrants, we travelled down to Fulham. Our names, addresses,
and qualifications were written down. To my overwhelming joy I was
marked as "very suitable." I went to Great Portland Street, arranged to
buy a motor-cycle, and returned home. That evening I received a telegram
from Oxford advising me to go down to Chatham.

I started off soon after breakfast, and suffered three punctures. The
mending of them put despatch-riding in an unhealthy light. At Rochester