So it came about that John Williams sat outside his billet one September evening, and watched the white chalk road that ran over the hill towards Amiens. After the flat and cultivated country of Flanders, the rolling hills called with an unparalleled insistence, and the idea of spending the two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches in company with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If he were to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return, probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, after all, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life of a soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being ordered to do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it all for twenty-four hours. John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with the aid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and when his companions collected in their billet that night he was already far away on the open road. He walked fast through the still September evening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strange songs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires at night. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and lay huddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawn awoke him. All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in his veins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found him strolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly a sentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?" "Downshires," came the reply. "Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?" "I be going back to my regiment." "Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden like last night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attacked us and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, so the Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere about eleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?" he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to be arrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams was retracing his steps at a steady double. "Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble," said the sentry of the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, and fell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be looking like at the moment.