Wearers of the Fleur de Lys gazed their last upon one of the countries
of their toils from the deck of the ship "Kalyan" as they steamed out of
Alexandria harbour on March 3rd, 1917. There were many present who had
accompanied the battalion on their venture from this same harbour nearly
two years before, to try their fortunes upon ill-starred Gallipoli, and
I have no doubt they wondered what these new experiences would bring
them. One thing is certain, however, and that is no one imagined we
should be compelled to continue our wanderings for full two more years
before the last journey home could be made. And yet, so it was. The
Fleur de Lys, for the first time since it had been adopted by the
Manchester Regiment, was borne to the soil of France, the country that
gave it birth, and whose kings wore it proudly for hundreds of years, by
Englishmen who had pledged themselves to fight in and for that fair
land. "Fair Land!" I hear someone scornfully mutter. However much we
were destined in the days to come, when wallowing to our waists amidst
the soil and water of France, to think very much the reverse, it would
be impossible to forget the glory of our Southern entrance to this sad
country.

The battalion made the trip across the Mediterranean in good company,
for the ship was shared by ourselves and the 8th Manchesters (the
Gallant Ardwicks) commanded by Lt.-Col. Morrough. We had an opportunity
of renewing our acquaintance with Malta, so vivid in its intense
colouring, whilst our escort of torpedo boats was changed. Perhaps the
following extract from an officer's diary will suffice to epitomise
whatever incident there was in the journey:--

"... It was more or less boisterous all the way, and on occasion
decidedly so--a vastly different voyage from my journey out. The