We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp
straw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we were
all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered
perilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that was
covering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look round
for some shelter, and George, our champion "scrounger," discovered a
chicken-house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died a
silent and, I hope, a painless death.

The order came round that the motor-cyclists were to spend the night at
the cottage--the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable--while
the rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with a
few fowls and investigated the cottage.

It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with some
food by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could not
move her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt, and onions.
With the aid of our old Post Sergeant we plucked some of the chickens
and put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee.

The others, dead tired, went to sleep in a wee loft. I could not sleep.
I was always seeing those wounded men passing, passing, and in my
ear--like the maddening refrain of a musical comedy ditty--there was
always murmuring--"We shall never return. It doesn't matter." Outside
was the clink and clatter of the column, the pitiful curses of tired
men, the groaning roar of the motor-lorries as they toiled up the slope.

Then the Staff began to wander in one by one--on foot, exhausted and
bedraggled. They loved the coffee, but only played with the chicken--I
admit it was tough. They thought all was lost and the General killed.