The wise ones dined well--if not too well--at the "Godbert," with its Madeleine, or the "Cathedral," with its Marguerite, who was the queen of the British Army in Picardy, or, not so expensively, at the "Hotel de la Paix." Some months later the club started, a well-run place. I remember a Major who used to have his bath there once a week at 4 p.m. It was prepared for him, with a large whisky-and-soda by its side. What more comfort could one wish? Then there were dinners at the Allied Press, after which the Major would give a discourse amid heavy silence; then music. The favourite song at that time was:-- "Jackie Boy! Master? Singie well? Very well. Hey down, Ho down, Derry, Derry down, All among the leaves so green, O. "With my Hey down, down, With my Ho down, down, Hey down, Ho down, Derry, Derry down, All among the leaves so green, O." Later, perhaps, if the night was fine, the Major would retire to the (p. 018) garden and play the flute. This was a serious moment--a great hush was felt, nobody dared to move; but he really didn't play badly. And old Hale would tell stories which no one could understand, and de Maratray would play ping-pong with extraordinary agility. It would all have been great fun if people had not been killing each other so near. Why, during that time, the Boche did not bomb Amiens, I cannot understand, it was thick every week-end with the British Army. One could hardly jamb oneself through the crowd in the Place Gambetta or up the Rue des Trois Cailloux. It was a struggling mass of khaki, bumping over the uneven cobblestones. What streets they were! I remember walking back from dinner one night with a Major, the agricultural expert of the Somme, and he said, "Don't you think the pavement is very hostile to-night?" I shall never forget my first sight of the Somme battlefields. It was snowing fast, but the ground was not covered, and there was this endless waste of mud, holes and water. Nothing but mud, water, crosses and broken Tanks; miles and miles of it, horrible and terrible, but with a noble dignity of its own, and, running through it, the great artery, the Albert-Bapaume Road, with its endless stream of men, guns, food lorries, mules and cars, all pressing along with apparently unceasing energy towards the front. Past all the little crosses where their comrades had fallen, nothing daunted, they pressed on towards the Hell that awaited them on the far side of Bapaume. The mud, the cold, the noise, the misery, and perhaps death;--on they went, plodding through the mud, those wonderful men, perhaps singing one of their cheer-making songs, such as:-- "I want to go home. (p. 019) I want to go home. I don't want to go to the trenches no more, Where the Whizz-bangs and Johnsons do rattle and roar. Take me right over the sea, Where the Allemande can't bayonet me. Oh, my! I don't want to die, I want to go home."