The fact is that the life of a despatch-rider, though exciting enough to satisfy the cravings of any ordinary man, is largely an endless battle amongst bad roads, bullets and shell fire, want of sleep, and the hundred-and-one other things which often wreck the nerves; but the life is well worth living, all the same. In work like this there is a good deal of nerve-racking riding and all sorts of difficult jobs have to be tackled. One of the worst I had to carry out while I was at the front was riding back to a patrol which was in our rear, and which had been lost sight of in the strain and turmoil of a rapid retirement. The patrol had been left at a corner where there were some forked roads, and in order to reach them it was necessary to go through a village. The Germans were everywhere and keenly on the look-out for a chance of sniping, so that there was plenty of excitement in the affair, especially as it was night and there was a darkness which was literally black. This made the task doubly dangerous, for in addition to the ordinary risks of being shot there was the great danger of coming to serious grief on the road--a road which you could feel but scarcely see. I don’t mind saying that when I started in the pitch darkness on this expedition I did not feel any too comfortable. It is the custom at such times to ride without lights, because lights serve as targets, but in spite of this I was forced to light up, because it would have been utterly impossible to ride without some sort of guide. After a good deal of trouble and a lot of risk I reached the village and then I had a most unpleasant shock, for a Belgian peasant told me that the Germans were actually occupying some of the houses. That was a startling announcement, but the added danger forced me to set my wits to work to decide what it was best to do. At last I determined to make tracks down a side street. I was riding very slowly and carefully when I was pulled up short with a sharp cry of “Halt” and I knew that a loaded rifle was covering me not far away. I did halt--I didn’t need to be told twice, not knowing what fate had in store for me; but thank heaven I quickly found that it was a British sentry who had spoken. I rapidly told him what I was out to do, and I was very glad to have his help and advice. The sentry told me that the patrol, like wise men, had acted on their own initiative and had fallen back on the village--and that was joyful news, because it meant that my work was practically done. Being greatly relieved I could not resist the temptation to tell the sentry that I might have scooted past him and got clear, but my humour vanished when another British soldier from the darkness said grimly, “Yes, you might have got past _him_, but _I_ should have put a bullet into you!”