The sergeant in charge of the 2nd Corps Motor-cyclists offered us some
hard-boiled eggs and put me in charge of our lot. Then off we went, and
hitting the main road just ahead of our muddled column, halted at the
desolate little village of Estrées.

It now began to rain.

Soon the column came pouring past, so miserably and so slowly,--lorries,
transport, guns, limbers, small batches of infantrymen, crowds of
stragglers. All were cursing the French, for right through the battle we
had expected the French to come up on our right wing. There had been a
whole corps of cavalry a few miles away, but in reply to our urgent
request for help their general had reported that his horses were too
tired. How we cursed them and cursed them.

After a weary hour's wait our subaltern came up, and, at my request,
sent me to look for the captain. I found him about two miles this side
of Reumont, endeavouring vainly to make some sort of ordered procession
out of the almost comically patchwork medley. Later I heard that the
last four hundred yards of the column had been shelled to destruction as
it was leaving Reumont, and a tale is told--probably without truth--of
an officer shooting the driver of the leading motor-lorry in a hopeless
endeavour to get some ammunition into the firing line.

I scooted back and told the others that our captain was still alive, and
a little later we pushed off into the flood. It was now getting dark,
and the rain, which had held off for a little, was pouring down.

Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage, and the Signal Company outspanned.