The next day I reported at Fulham. More hours of waiting. I discovered an old postman who had also enlisted in the R.A.M.C., and as he “knew the ropes” I stuck to him like a leech. In the afternoon an old recruiting sergeant with a husky voice fell us in, and we marched, a mob of civilians, through the London streets to the railway station. Although this was quite a short distance, the sergeant fell us out near a public-house, and he and a lot more disappeared inside. What a motley crowd we were: clerks in bowler hats; “knuts” in brown suits, brown ties, brown shoes, and a horse-shoe tie-pin; tramp-like looking men in rags and tatters and smelling of dirt and beer and rank twist. Old soldiers trying to “chuck a chest”; lanky lads from the country gaping at the houses, shops and people. Rough, broad-speaking, broad-shouldered men from the Lancashire cotton-mills; shop assistants with polished boots, and some even with kid gloves and a silver-banded cane. Here and there was a farm-hand in corduroys and hob-nailed, cowdung-spattered boots, puffing at a broken old clay pipe, and speaking in the “Darset” dialect. At the station they had to have another “wet” in the refreshment room, and by the time the train was due to start a good many were “canned up.” Boozy voices yelled out-- “'S long way... Tipper-airy...” “Good-bye, Bill... 'ave... 'nother swig?” “Don't ferget ter write, Bill...” “Aw-right, Liz... Good-bye, Albert...” We were locked in the carriage. There was much shouting and laughing.... And so to Aldershot. CHAPTER II. A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY Aldershot was a seething swarm of civilians who had enlisted. Every class and every type was to be seen. We found out the R.A.M.C. depot and reported. A man sat at an old soapbox with a lot of papers, and we had to file past him. This was in the middle of a field with row upon row of bell-tents. “Name?” he snapped. I told him. “Age?” “Religion?” “Quaker.” “Right!--Quaker Oats!--Section 'E,' over there.” But my old postman knew better, and, having found out where “Section E” was camped, we went off up the town to look for lodging for the night, knowing that in such a crowd of civilians we could not be missed. At last we found a pokey little house where the woman agreed to let us stay the night and get some breakfast next day. That night was fearful. We had to sleep in a double bed, and it was full of fleas. The moonlight shone through the window. The shadow of a barrack-room chimney-pot slid slowly across my face as the hours dragged on. We got up about 5.30 A.M., so as to get down to the parade-ground in time for the “fall in.” We washed in a tiny scullery sink downstairs. There was a Pears' Annual print of an old fisherman telling a story to a little girl stuck over the mantelpiece. We had eggs and bread-and-butter and tea for breakfast, and I think the woman only charged us three shillings all told.