It now appeared that we had to entrain at Boulogne at 8 a.m. the next morning, and an early rise and breakfast were arranged. Few were sorry that our stay on this frozen mountain was to be short; most of us, indeed, regretted that we had ever to come there at all. Very early next morning all were astir. The misery of shaving with freezing water on an icy cold morning was a new experience, and no more pleasant on this than on the many subsequent occasions when it occurred. The officers were more fortunate; they had luckily secured a wooden hut, and also a good breakfast at the Church Army Hut, a veritable oasis in the desert.
After some heated moments while the Commanding Officer inspected the men, who looked rather different from the spotless battalion of Woking—how distant, by the way, that place seemed!—the battalion proceeded down the hill. The descent, if less arduous than the ascent, was certainly more perilous. Even the "higher command" could not always control its feet, and the battalion descended in various postures, mostly in a sitting or prone position; while the clatter of equipment, the crash of falling rifles, and the curses of the victims, aroused the local inhabitants, who regarded us with unseemly mirth.
On arrival at the station we found, to our surprise, that our train was in. It was of the usual kind, "Chevaux 8, Hommes 40," new to us then, but familiar to all the world now. Into this the battalion was sorted, the officers having a first-class carriage of an old-world aspect. Then we began to wait, a practice in which we were all greatly skilled, and about 9.30 a.m. we started off.
Before leaving England we had been issued with two wonderful pamphlets on embarkation and landing, containing, amongst other details, some remarkable returns of great length and complexity which had to be given to various railway, embarkation, and landing officials. The compilation of these returns had wellnigh deprived the Orderly-Room Sergeant of his wits, and but for the fact that he was to join that mysterious body called "3rd Echelon," we might have felt inclined to abandon the returns in order to save his reason. However, done they were. The next thing was to get rid of them. This proved even more difficult than their compilation; in fact, in the end we had to admit defeat. Every official wearing "tabs," a "brassard," or in any other way disclosing an official capacity, was offered these returns. Persuasion, threats, entreaties, demands were tried in turn without success. As a last resource, just as the train was moving off, they were thrust into the hands of the R.T.O. at Boulogne, who, however, hastily returned them, muttering that they were as dead as the dodo, and retaliated by presenting us with a Movement Order and a sheaf of papers dealing with the manifold responsibilities of O.C. Train.
The journey up from the Base has been so often described that it requires no particular notice here. It is a long and stately process. The train, when it moves at all, which is only occasionally and for short periods, makes a great deal of fuss about it; but if you should happen to be wandering about on the permanent way, in spite of orders to the contrary, you can always walk after it and climb on board once more. For the new-comer there was much of interest. On the outskirts of Boulogne the train passed huge dumps of war material of every possible description—guns, ammunition, wagons, trucks, stores, etc., with which gangs of "P.B." men, "Chinks," and other miscellaneous persons were coping in a leisurely fashion. As the train proceeded, the scenery of Northern France began to unfold itself. It is not very interesting—flat for the most part and agricultural, but full of differences from our own English country. The lack of hedges, the strange advertisements, the women at the level-crossings with their quaint horns, all struck a fresh note, especially for those who had never crossed the Channel before, even in the days of peace.
At 8.30 p.m., long after it was dark, the train drew into Bailleul Station, where the Staff Captain, Captain Beazley, was awaiting our arrival. Instantly everyone was galvanized into life. Huge flares illumined the darkness, and officers and N.C.Os. rushed about rousing their men, who were wildly searching in the dark recesses of their cattle-trucks for missing articles of kit. As usual, in a short time apparent chaos resolved itself into order, and the battalion moved off on its eight-mile march to billets under the guidance of an Australian, who was quite distressingly frank about his ignorance of the route. It was a trying march. The experience of the last two days, including twelve hours cramped up in trucks, had not been a very good preliminary to a three hours' tramp. Never had one's kit weighed so heavily. The "tin hat" between the pack straps seemed to increase the weight terribly. The road through the silent streets of Bailleul was cobbled, but as soon as the town was cleared a good country road with a pleasant surface took its place. Slowly the column moved along, and it was nearly midnight before we reached the forked roads where some of the companies had to branch off to their billets. The guide went with them, as the Quartermaster, who had passed us with the stores in a lorry, knew about the billets in Strazeele village. The guide, however, proved a broken reed, and much marching and counter-marching took place, and many an angry conversation with irate householders, before the tired companies at last got to rest in their respective billets—empty barns of a draughty nature. Headquarters proceeded to Strazeele, and eventually settled into billets where, in one case at any rate, a kindly hostess was waiting up with ample supplies of excellent coffee.
About six o'clock the next morning Major Wilson awoke the Adjutant to say that the transport had arrived, and where was it to go? On this question the Adjutant was entirely devoid of information, having seen nothing of the village in the blackness of the previous night. However, on further inquiry the Major found the field that had been selected, and soon the transport were settled in it, and the battalion was now collected and ready for any emergency.
Strazeele is (or was) a typical little village, consisting of two main streets forming a cross, a few straggling houses wandering off from these, two chief avenues, a church, a mairie, and innumerable estaminets. The surrounding country is slightly undulating arable land dotted with small farms, in which the various companies were billeted. The frost held for the first two days, but then the thaw set in with the thin rain and thick mud so strongly identified with Northern France and Flanders.
Beyond getting things straight, little training was attempted except the fitting of small box respirators and instruction in their use, which was duly carried out. Then each man had to pass through tear gas to test his respirator. When the Commanding Officer's turn came, Lieutenant James, the Gas Officer, to make assurance doubly sure, produced such a powerful mixture that Colonel Fletcher suffered severely, and his return to the orderly-room caused a rapid exodus of the staff with streaming eyes. The only other item of interest was the valiant attempt of a fatigue party, working night and day, to bury a dead horse in ground which, owing to the recent frost, was as hard as iron, which caused an interchange of very emphatic telegrams between Brigade and Battalion Headquarters.
Orders were now received for the Brigade to move on February 20th to the Sailly area, the battalion to pass the starting-point at 8.35 a.m. This meant early breakfasts and early preparations generally; but this, our first move on active service, proved a severe test of our training. However, after some vigorous criticisms from those in authority, we managed to take our places to time in the Brigade column, and set off for the new area in a steady drizzle. On the way we passed the Corps Commander, Lieutenant-General Sir A. J. Godley, commanding 2nd Anzac Corps.