For three days I lay wrapped up on the straw in the barn, eating nothing; and only crawling out to see the doctor each morning at nine o’clock. Of other symptoms I will say nothing. The whole affair was appalling, but I recovered sufficient interest in life on the fourth morning to parade sick, although I felt vastly more fit. Indeed, the argument formed itself, “since I am a soldier I’ll play the ‘old soldier’ and see how long I can be excused duty.” And I did it so well that for three more days I was to all intents and purposes a free man. On one of the days I fell in with a corporal of another squadron, and he and I got a couple of horses and rode into Bailleul, which was only about three miles south of us, and we bought chocolates, and candles and books, and exchanged salutes with the Prince of Wales, who was walking in the town. Then we came back with our supplies after an excellent lunch at the hotel in the square, the “Faucon,” and had tea with the officers’ servants in a cosy little billet with a fire and beds. The remarks they made about their officers were most instructive, and they referred to them either as “my bloke” or “’is lordship.” And there it was I met again a man I had spoken to once at Tidworth, who knew French and was now squadron interpreter. He was a charming man of considerable means, with a large business, who had joined up immediately on the outbreak of war. But being squadron interpreter he messed with the officers, had a billet in a cottage, slept on a bed, had a private hip bath and hot water, and was in heaven, comparatively. He suggested to me that as my squadron lacked an interpreter (he was doing the extra work) and I knew French it was up to me. “But how the devil’s it to be done?” said I, alight with the idea. “Why don’t you go and see the Colonel?” he suggested. I gasped. The Colonel was nearly God. He laughed. “This is ‘Kitchener’s Army,’” he said, “not the regular Army. Things are a bit different.” They were indeed! So I slept on the idea and every moment it seemed to me better and better, until the following evening after tea, instead of going to the _estaminet_, I went down to squadron headquarters. For about five minutes I walked up and down in the mud, plucking up courage. I would rather have faced a Hun any day. At last I went into the farmyard and knocked at the door. There were lights in the crack of the window shutters. A servant answered the door. “Is the Colonel in?” said I boldly. He peered at me. “What the perishin’ ’ell do _you_ want to know for?” “I want to see him,” said I. “And what the ’ell do _you_ want to see him for?” I was annoyed. It seemed quite likely that this confounded servant would do the St. Peter act and refuse me entrance into the gates. “Look here,” I said, “it doesn’t matter to you what for or why. You’re here to answer questions. Is the Colonel _in_?”