Somewhere in France.
On the 8th February, 1917, the 116th Battalion, quartered at Witley Camp, England, was warned to proceed to France on Sunday, 11th February. Everything, in consequence, was hustle and bustle, and the Battalion Orderly Room, which at the best of times is no haven of rest, was inundated with requests for additional information and leave. There was very little information to be got, other than that we were really for duty in France, and absolutely no leave, and so we gradually subsided and commenced preparations for our departure.
The next few days seemed an eternity, for it was greatly feared that, even though we had received official warning for France, the Battalion’s departure might be delayed on account of mumps; at least four huts just now being quarantined with that disease. Notwithstanding many pessimistic prophecies emanating from the M.O. (Capt. James Moore), the fateful day arrived, and the Battalion, less its horses and half the transport section, which had been sent on in advance under Lt. Proctor, entrained at Milford Station at the usual army hour for such operations (1.10 a.m.), one ten ack emma.
The London and South Western Railway seemed determined to make up for all its past bad behaviour, and by ten o’clock the same morning we were all safely tucked away on board His Majesty’s Transport “Victoria” with part of the 66th Imperial Divisional Headquarters and some drafts. Nothing of any importance happened during the voyage, and no “subs” were sighted, so far as we knew, so that by noon we had arrived at Boulogne. A short march brought us to St. Martin’s Camp, during which we were carefully scrutinized by the inhabitants, who shouted many unintelligible comments at us, but which by the expressions on their faces we interpreted to be of a complimentary nature. A host of small, stockingless boys accompanied us all the way from the boat to the camp, asking the most extraordinary questions in broken English, and generally ending by “cigarette?” or “bully beef?”.
St. Martin’s Camp, situated as it was on the side of a hill, and about five kilometres from Boulogne, did not commend itself to us in any way, and there was nothing of interest there except the odd Y.M.C.A. or Salvation Army Hut. The men slept about ten in a tent and the officers were billeted all together in a kind of barn; blankets and bed rolls were freely distributed, and having vainly applied for leave to visit the City we turned in to dream of our dear ones or to wonder what fate had in store for us during the next few months. There is nothing on earth quite so trying as waiting for orders, especially when confined to a camp like St. Martin’s, but we were not to be kept in suspense very long, for at midnight (which, as has been mentioned before, is about the usual Army hour for such things) orders were received to move, and by 8 a.m., 12th February, the whole Battalion had entrained for a destination “Somewhere in France.”
The poor old despised London and South Western Railway was a perfect paradise to the cattle trucks of this train, but what did anything matter now?
By 8 a.m. the following morning we had detrained at Houdain, at that time the centre of the rest billets occupied by the 3rd Canadian Division, and after staying one night in the village of Divion, where we had our first introduction to Company messing, we finally reached a place called Haillicourt, from where we could hear the guns all day and could see the flares along the front at night—and so the war was getting nearer every minute, or rather we were getting nearer to the war, and strange to tell the nearer we got the better we thought we liked it.