That afternoon I repeated it all to the platoon and told them of the inevitable success attending our assault. They seemed to believe it. All except Sergeant Townsend. ‘Do you say, sir, that we have three divisions and the Cavalry Corps behind us?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Well, excuse me, sir, I’m thinking it’s only those chaps on the right that’ll get reinforcements. If we get half a platoon of Mons Angels, that’s about all we will get.’ ‘Sergeant Townsend,’ I said, ‘you are a well-known pessimist. This is going to be a good show.’ The next morning we were relieved by the Middlesex and marched back to Béthune, where we dumped our spare kit at the Montmorency Barracks. The battalion officers messed together in a big house near by. This billet was claimed at the same time by the staff of a new-army division which was to take part in the fighting next day. The argument was settled in a friendly way by division and battalion messing together. It was, someone pointed out, like a caricature of The Last Supper in duplicate. In the middle of the long table sat the two pseudo-Christs, the battalion colonel and the divisional general. Everybody was drinking a lot; the subalterns were allowed whisky for a treat, and were getting rowdy. They raised their glasses with: ‘Cheero, we will be messing together to-morrow night in La Bassée.’ Only the company commanders were looking worried. I remember C Company commander especially, Captain A. L. Samson, biting his thumb and refusing to join in the general excitement. I think it was Childe-Freeman of B company who said that night: ‘The last time the regiment was in these parts it was under decent generalship. Old Marlborough knew better than to attack the La Bassée lines; he masked them and went round.’ The G.S.O. 1 of the new-army division, a staff-colonel, knew the adjutant well. They had played polo together in India. I happened to be sitting next to them. The G.S.O. 1 said to the adjutant, rather drunkenly: ‘Charley, do you see that silly old woman over there? Calls himself General Commanding. Doesn’t know where he is; doesn’t know where his division is; can’t read a map properly. He’s marched the poor sods off their feet and left his supplies behind, God knows where. They’ve had to use their iron rations and what they could pick up in the villages. And to-morrow he’s going to fight a battle. Doesn’t know anything about battles; the men have never been in trenches before, and to-morrow’s going to be a glorious balls-up, and the day after to-morrow he’ll be sent home.’ Then he said, quite seriously: ‘Really, Charley, it’s just like that, you mark my words.’