There were several hours to wait even after a shave and a breakfast, but the time passed quickly enough. After all, it was our last sight of England, perhaps for all time, and we were not in quite so much of a hurry as a week before. At 12.30 p.m. we marched on board s.s. _Victoria_, one of the regular cross-Channel boats. Besides ourselves there were innumerable officers and men returning from leave, who glanced with casual interest at the obviously new crowd going out for the first time. The Commanding Officer was O.C. Ship, and consequently entitled to a cabin, where wonderful instructions dealing with action in event of submarine attack, etc., were to be found. There was also an amusing notebook in which Os.C. Ships were asked to make their comments on the ship. The names of many distinguished Generals were to be found among the signatures, and some of the remarks were highly entertaining. [Illustration: THE BATTALION BLACKPOOL, 1914.] [Illustration: GROUP--CANTERBURY, 1916.] The day was fine and cold, with a strong wind blowing, and although it was not exactly calm, few showed any serious signs of sea sickness. Two other transports and a couple of torpedo-boat destroyers made up the party. Boulogne was reached about 2 p.m., but owing to the speed of the other vessels we were last in. A long wait followed, and eventually we had to cross over another ship to get to the quay, a tiresome process in full kit. We had intended to have a very orderly landing, but the efforts of the Commanding Officer to get the men formed up were frustrated by the Assistant Military Landing Officer, who would not allow any halt until we were clear of all the quays and over the bridges into the town. An unpleasant and fatiguing "follow my leader" round trucks and over metals, dodging engines and motor lorries, resulted, during which process the whole battalion got well mixed up. Eventually, however, after considerable excitement, we formed up in close column of companies, and proceeded to march to Ostrehove Camp. No one who took part in that march will ever forget it. It was not a long one, two or three miles at the most, but the last part of it was up a hill of the very steepest description. This is bad enough in itself at any time when you are carrying a heavy pack and all the rest of the impedimenta that adorn the "P.B.I.," but when, owing to burst water-pipes, the road is covered with very smooth ice for yards at a stretch, the march becomes laborious and painful to a degree.