At Ypres with Best-Dunkley | Page 3

leave.
That leave was spent in the happy way in which all such leaves were
spent during the Great War, terminating with a visit to the Gaiety, in
Manchester, in conjunction with my father and mother, where we saw a
most enjoyable comedy entitled "The Two Miss Farndons."
I bid farewell to my parents on Victoria Station at 10.35 that
evening--Friday, May 25, 1917; and I then proceeded to the train which
was to carry me away to England's capital.
The following letter, written at Folkestone at 11.15 the following

morning, describes my journey up to that moment:
"I hope you and Father got home safely last night and are not worrying.
My train left Manchester at 11.20. I had to change at Stockport. In
neither case could I get a carriage to myself, but I managed to doze.
When dawn broke we were in Northampton. It was 6.30 when the train
arrived in Euston Station. I got a taxi across London to Victoria. There
was an enormous crowd of military there, bound for France. People
were seeing some of them off. I could not get any breakfast there. My
train left London at 7.50. The journey through Kent is really delightful,
such beautiful country. I am sorry to leave dear old England; hope I
shall soon be back again!
"As we passed through Shorncliffe I noticed a house in ruins.
Apparently there had been an air raid. And there has indeed! There was
a bad air raid here at 6.30 last night. There is a good deal of damage
done in Folkestone: I have seen it while walking about the streets this
morning. There have been a good many casualties.
"The weather is glorious, delightful sunshine and hot. I am now having
breakfast in a cafe in Folkestone with another officer. We sail on the
Princess Clementine at 2 this afternoon, and so will be in Boulogne
about 3.30."
I landed at Boulogne at 4 that afternoon and we went straight on to
Étaples the same evening. The following letter recounts my journey
and arrival at that great camp upon the sand-hills:
"May 27th, 1917.
"I have now, once more, safely arrived in this place, where there is
nothing but sand. I expect you will already have received my
communications from Folkestone. Is the news of the raid yet in the
papers? I was told that there were thirty German aeroplanes and one
zeppelin. Bombs were dropped on the soldiers' camp there, and a good
many soldiers were killed. Apparently the operation made a big row,
for it was heard across the water in the cathedral city in which we
landed.

" ... We went on board at 1.30, but the boat did not start until 2.50. It
was, and still is, tremendously hot. It seems that submarines are not
harassing our transport route: for the number of ships, of various kinds,
crossing was considerable. It was a pleasant voyage; but as I saw the
white cliffs of Folkestone receding from my ken I could not help
recalling with what rapture I beheld them on my return from France last
October, and expressing a faint wish that I were again returning rather
than going out! But, still, one will soon get used to France again; and
we can always look forward to the next return. One thing is obvious--I
am here for the hottest weather; heat, if anything, will be the trouble,
not cold.
"The boat stood in the harbour for some time before we could land; but
we eventually did so at 4. After seeing about my kit I had tea at the
British Officers' Club, opposite the Gare Centrale. Then I got into the
train. It should have left at 5.45, but, like all French trains, was very
late in starting. It did start a little before 7. It was a train filled entirely
with officers. It ambled along in the usual leisurely fashion. When we
were about half-way we noticed that a good many were standing
outside on the step; some had their legs hanging out of the window,
others were actually on the roof! When we came to a tunnel the latter
dived in through the open windows. Others got out and spoke to girls
on the way, and then ran on and got back into the train. This is how
travelling is carried on 'Somewhere in France'!
"The scenery, beautiful as it seemed last autumn, is much more
beautiful now. It is at its best: the green grass with the dandelions and
daisies, the hawthorn and the trees in bloom, little villages clustering in
charming woods, the sheep and the cows, and little children cheering
the train, everything sparkling in the hot sunshine; such is France--and
such was the Kent I left behind me--at present. As