Just how far they are going back one cannot decide. The fact remains that the enemy is falling back, not for strategical reasons, as he is so anxious for his people and neutrals to believe, but because he is forced to by the superiority of our troops and our dominating gun-power. The beginning of the end is at hand, the eve of great events is here; the results of this year's fighting will decide the future peace of the world, the triumph of Christianity over barbarity, of God over the devil.
I received instructions to proceed again to France. "The capture of Bapaume is imminent, you must certainly obtain that," I was told, "and add another to your list of successes." So I left by the midday boat-train; the usual crowds were there to see their friends off. A descriptive writer could fill a volume with impressions gathered on the station platform an hour before the train starts. Scenes of pathos and assumed joy; of strong men and women stifling their emotions with a stubbornness that would do justice to the martyrdom of the Early Christians in the arenas of Rome.
I arrived at Folkestone; the weather was very cold and a mist hung over the sea, blotting everything out of view beyond the end of the breakwater. The train drew up alongside and it emptied itself of its human khaki freight, who, with one accord, made their way to the waiting steamboats, painted a dull green-grey. All aboard: quickly and methodically we passed up the gangway, giving up our embarkation tickets at the end and receiving another card to fill up, with personal particulars, as we stepped on board. This card was to be given up upon one's arrival at Boulogne.
Gradually the boat filled with officers and men; kits and cars were hoisted aboard, life-belts were served out; everybody was compelled to put them on in case of an accident.
Everything was aboard; the three boats were ready to leave; the two in front, one an old cross-Channel paddle boat, the other one of the later turbine class—but still no sign of leaving.
"What are we waiting for?" I asked a seaman near by.
"We must wait until we get permission; the mist is very thick, sir—going to be a cold journey." With that he left. I buttoned my warm great-coat well round my throat, pulled my cap firmly down over my ears and went to the upper deck and peered out into the thickening sea-mist towards the harbour entrance.
I went to the deck-rail and leaned over. Crowds of sea-gulls cawed and wheeled round, seemingly hung suspended in the air by an invisible wire. The gulls fascinated me; one second they were in the air motionless on their huge outstretched wings, then suddenly, seeing either the shape of a fish coming to the surface, or a crumb of bread floating, one of the birds would dart down, make a grab with its beak at the object, skim the surface of the water, then gracefully wing its way upwards and join its fellows.
I turned my gaze again seawards: the mist was drawing nearer, threatening to envelop our boats in its embrace. How cold it was! The upper deck was now full of officers, busily putting on their life-belts—I had secured mine to my kit-bag, ready to put it on when required. At that moment an officer came up to me.
"Have you a life-belt?" he said, "if so would you mind putting it on? I have to go all round the boat and see that everybody has one."