THE BATTALION BLACKPOOL, 1914.
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.
Arrived at the top of the hill, we looked round hopefully for the promised rest camp. The sight was indeed depressing. A few dejected and battered-looking tents, one or two marquees struggling with the gale, and an odd hut or two, were the only signs of human habitation on this bleak and wretched moor. The temperature was several degrees below freezing, the wind swept over us in an icy gale, and daylight was rapidly failing. So this was active service, and how warm and comfortable those barracks at Woking were, and how strange that once we thought them cold and bare!
Little time, however, was allowed for reflections. The Camp Warden was there to introduce us to the amenities of the place, and companies and platoons were soon struggling off to try to find shelter from the wind. Blankets had to be drawn and rations issued, and as darkness fell parties were still hurrying about in every direction, endeavouring to get things straight for the night. Presently our indefatigable Quartermaster arrived, having forced a lorry driver, apparently at the point of his revolver, to bring the mechanical transport up to the camp; but how it got up, and still more how it ever got back, are among the unsolved mysteries of the war.