"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh it's a lovely war!"
The French did not sing, but we, who were escaping destruction, passed from one song to another:
"I don't want to fight the Germans,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd sooner be in London,
Dear old dirty London."
And
"Far, far from Ypers,
I'd like to be,
Where German snipers
Can't get at me."
And
"When this bloody war is over,
O how happy I shall be,
When I get my civvy clothes on,
No more soldiering for me."
and all the other songs familiar to every soldier in the British army.
We marched all day along straight roads running in between flat fields and past ugly little villages. As we grew tired and footsore our rollicking spirit abated and the singing died down.
Towards nightfall we halted in a large meadow with a pond in one corner. Several lorries loaded with tents were waiting for us. We unloaded them, pitched the tents, crept into them, and went to bed.