The march through the cobbled streets of Havre rapidly developed into
a fiasco. This was one of the first, if not the very first, landing of
British Troops in France, and to the French it was a novelty, calling
for a tremendous display of open-armed welcome. Children rushed from
the houses, and fell upon the men crying for "souvenirs." Ladies
pursued them with basins full of wine and what they were pleased to
call beer. Men were literally carried from the ranks, under the eyes
of their Officers, and borne in triumph into houses and inns. What
with the heat of the day and the heaviness of the equipment and the
after-effects of the noisome deck, the men could scarcely be blamed for
availing themselves of such hospitality, though to drink intoxicants on
the march is suicidal. Men "fell out," first by ones and twos, then by
whole half-dozens and dozens. The Subaltern himself was scarcely strong
enough to stagger up the long hills at the back of the town, let alone
worrying about his men. The Colonel was aghast, and very furious. He
couldn't understand it. (He was riding.)
The camp was prepared for the troops in a wonderfully complete
fashion--not the least thing seemed to have been forgotten. The men,
stripped of their boots, coats and equipments, were resting in the
shade of the tents. A caterer from Havre had come up to supply the
Mess, and the Subaltern was able to procure from him a bottle of rather
heady claret, which, as he was thirsty and exhausted, he consumed too
rapidly, and found himself hopelessly inebriate. Luckily there was
nothing to do, so he slept for many hours.
Waking up in the cool of the evening he heard the voices of another
Second-Lieutenant and a reservist Subaltern talking about some people
he knew near his home. It was good to forget about wars and soldiers,
and everything that filled so amply the present and future, and to lose
himself in pleasant talk of pleasant things at home.... The dinner
provided by the French caterer was very French, and altogether the
last sort of meal that a young gentleman suffering from anti-enteric
inoculation ought to have indulged in. Everything conspired to make him
worse, and what with the heat and the malady, he spent a very miserable
time.
After about two days' stay, the Battalion moved away from the rest
camp, and, setting out before dawn, marched back through those fatal
streets of Havre, this time deserted in the moonlight, to a sort of
shed, called by the French authorities a troop station. Here as usual
the train was waiting, and the men had but to be put in. The carriages
could not be called luxurious; to be frank, they were cattle-trucks.
But it takes more than that to damp the spirits of Mr. Thomas Atkins.
Cries imitating the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep broke
out from the trucks!
The train moved out of the depot, and wended its way in the most
casual manner through the streets of Havre. This so amused Tommy that
he roared with laughter. The people who rushed to give the train
a send-off, with many cries of "_Vive les Anglais_." "_A bas les
Bosches_," were greeted with more bleatings and brayings.