We cast off about one in the morning. The night was horribly cold, and a
slow dawn was never more welcomed. But day brought a new horror. The sun
poured down on us, and the smell from the horses packed closely below
was almost unbearable; while, worst of all, we had to go below to wash
and to draw our rations.

Then I was first introduced to bully. The first tin tastes delicious and
fills you rapidly. You never actually grow to dislike it, and many times
when extra hungry I have longed for an extra tin. But when you have
lived on bully for three months (we have not been served out with fresh
meat more than a dozen times altogether),[2] how you long for any little
luxuries to vary the monotony of your food!

On the morning of the third day we passed a French destroyer with a
small prize in tow, and rejoiced greatly, and towards evening we dropped
anchor off Havre. On either side of the narrow entrance to the docks
there were cheering crowds, and we cheered back, thrilled, occasionally
breaking into the soldier's anthem, "It's a long, long way to
Tipperary."[3]

We disembarked at a secluded wharf, and after waiting about for a couple
of hours or so--we had not then learned to wait--we were marched off to
a huge dim warehouse, where we were given gallons of the most delicious
hot coffee, and bought scrumptious little cakes.

It was now quite dark, and, for what seemed whole nights, we sat
wearily waiting while the horses were taken off the transport. We made
one vain dash for our quarters, but found only another enormous
warehouse, strangely lit, full of clattering waggons and restive horses.
We watched with wonder a battery clank out into the night, and then