The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water had been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The floor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep. Next morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the fruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with the thought that I was preventing waste. It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down in a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday newspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was feeling lazy. I was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place that seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the sound of the guns could be heard in the distance. I had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle. "What are you filling your water-bottle for?" I asked. "We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off." "Good Lord! Who told you that?" "Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down." I never had such a scramble in my life. With an appetite oversatisfied with apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile away in all sorts of holes and corners--to move out of the village in twenty minutes. It's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. And at five minutes past two the whole brigade was moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme. Our destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we rested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley--there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate. Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the afternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a distance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we were soon to march towards the storm.