We cannot very well form up and march properly directly we get out of trenches at Ambulance Corner, because Fritz is so fond of directing his field-gun practice there; so we rather straggle over the next quarter of a mile, by platoons, till we come to the little river. It's a jolly little stream, with a regular mill-race of a current, and a nice clear shallow reach close to the bridge, with clean grass alongside. We wade right in and wash boots. Everyone is wearing "boots, trench, gum, thigh," so he just steps into the river and washes the mud off. Then he gets back to the bank, and off with the gum-boots and on with the ordinary marching boots, which have been carried slung round the neck by their laces. The trench boots, clean and shiny now, are handed into store at Brigade Headquarters, ready for our next turn in, for anyone else who wants 'em. In store, they are hung up to dry, you know, for, though no wet from outside will ever leak into these boots (unless they're cut), yet, being water-and air-tight, they get pretty wet inside after a week's turn in trenches, from condensation and the moisture of one's own limbs which has no chance of evaporation. It's the same with the much-vaunted trench-coats, of course; a few hours' wear makes 'em pretty damp inside. After handing in the boots, we form up properly for marching into the village. Our Company Quartermaster-Sergeant, with a N.C.O. from each platoon, has been ahead a few hours before us, to take over billets from the Q.M.S. of the Company that relieved us; and so each platoon has a guide to meet it, just as in taking over a line of trenches. Either in or close to every billet, there are cellars marked up outside for so many men. These are our bolt-holes, to which every man is instructed to run and take shelter the instant a bombardment begins. "Abri 50 hommes"; or "Cellar for 30 men"; these are the legends you see daubed outside the cellars. And chalked on the gates of the house-yards throughout the village you will see such lines as "30 Men, 'A' Coy."; or "2 Off.'s, 30 Men, 'B' Coy."; and, perhaps, the initials of the regiment. But when I mention billets you mustn't think of the style in which you billeted those four recruits last spring, you know. By Jove, no! It is laid down that billets in France mean the provision of shelter from the elements. Sometimes it's complete shelter, and sometimes it isn't; but it's always the best the folk can give. In this village, for instance, there are hardly any inhabitants left. Ninety per cent. of the houses are empty, and a good many have been pretty badly knocked about by shells. I have often laughed in remembering your careful anxiety about providing ash-trays and comfortable chairs for your recruits last year; and the trouble you took about cocoa last thing at night, and having the evening meal really hot, even though the times of arrival with your lodgers might be a bit irregular. It's not _quite_ like that behind the firing line, you know.