THE MOVE TO THE NORTH.
We left Serches at dusk with little regret and pushed on over the hill
past Ferme d'Epitaphe of gluttonous memory, past the Headquarter clerks,
who were jogging peacefully along on bicycles, down the other side of
the hill, and on to the village of Maast.
Headquarters were in a curious farm. One side of its court was formed by
a hill in which there were caves--good shelter for the men. There was
just one run that night to Corps H.Q. in a chateau three miles farther
on.
The morning was clear and sunny. A good, lazy breakfast preluded a great
wash. Then we chatted discreetly with a Paris _midinette_ at the gate of
the farm. Though not in Flanders, she was of the Flemish type,--bright
colouring, high cheek-bones, dark eyes. On these little social
occasions--they came all too rarely; that is why I always mention
them--there was much advantage in being only a corporal. Officers, even
Staff Officers, as they passed threw at us a look of admiration and
envy. A salute was cheap at the price.
In the afternoon there was a run, and when I returned I found that the
rest-camp rumour had been replaced by two others--either we were going
into action immediately a little farther along the line beyond Soissons,
or we were about to make a dash to Ostend for the purpose of outflanking
the Germans.
We moved again at dusk, and getting clear of the two brigades with H.Q.
rode rapidly twenty miles across country, passing over the road by which
we had advanced, to Longpont, a big dark chateau set in a wood and with
a French sentry at the gate. Our third brigade was trekking away into
the darkness as we came in. We slept in a large room on straw
mattresses--very comforting to the bones.
The morning was again gorgeous, and again we breakfasted late and well.
The chateau we discovered to be monumental, and beside it, set in a
beautiful garden, was a ruined chapel, where a service was held--the
first we had been able to attend since the beginning of the war.
Our host, an old man, thin and lithe, and dressed in shiny black, came
round during the day to see that we had all we needed. We heard a
tale--I do not know how true it was--that the Crown Prince had stayed at
the chateau. He had drunk much ancient and good wine, and what he had
not drunk he had taken away with him, together with some objects of art.
The chateau was full of good things.
During the day I had a magnificent run of forty miles over straight dry
roads to Hartennes, where, if you will remember, that great man,
Sergeant Croucher of the cyclists, had given us tea, and on to Chacrise
and Maast. It was the first long and open run I had had since the days
of the retreat, when starting from La Pommeraye I had ridden through the
forest to Compiègne in search of the Divisional Train.
Just after I had returned we started off again--at dusk. I was sent
round to a place, the name of which I cannot remember, to a certain
division; then I struck north along a straight road through the forest
to Villers-Cotterets. The town was crammed with French motor-lorries and
crowded with French troops, who greeted me hilariously as I rode through
to Véze.
There we slept comfortably in the lodge of the chateau, all, that is,
except Grimers, who had been seized with a puncture just outside the
main hotel in Villers-Cotterets.
In the morning I had a fine run to a brigade at Béthancourt, the little
village, you will remember, where we lunched off an excellent omelette,
and convinced the populace, with the help of our host, that the Germans
would come no farther.
While I was away the rest discovered some excellent white wine in the
cellar of the lodge, and before starting again at dusk we made a fine
meal. Cecil and I remained after the others had gone, and when the wife
of the lodge-keeper came in and expressed her utter detestation of all
troops, we told her that we were shedding our blood for France, and
offered her forgetfully a glass of her own good wine.
That night we slept at Béthisy St Martin. On the retreat, you will
remember, the lord of the chateau had given some of the despatch riders
dinner, before they learnt that D.H.Q. had been diverted to
Crécy-en-Valois. He recognised us with joy, allowed us to take things
from the kitchen, and in the morning hunted out for us a tennis set.
Four of us who were not on duty played a great game on a very passable
gravel court.
We now heard that "the Division" was convinced that we were going to
make a dash for Ostend, and rumour seemed to crystallise into truth
when orders came that we were to entrain that night at Pont St Maxence.
The despatch riders rode ahead of the column, and received a joyous
welcome in the town. We stalked bravely into a café, and drank loud and
hearty toasts with some friendly but rather drunk French soldiers.
Gascons they were, and d'Artagnans all, from their proper boasting--the
heart of a lion and the cunning of a fox, they said. One of us was
called into a more sober chamber to drink ceremonious toasts in
champagne with their officers. In the street another of us--I would not
give even his initial--selecting the leading representative of young,
demure, and ornamental maidenhood, embraced her in the middle of the
most admiring crowd I have ever seen, while the rest of us explained to
a half-angry mother that her daughter should be proud and happy--as
indeed she was--to represent the respectable and historic town of Pont
St Maxence.
Then, amidst shrieks and cheers and cries of "Brave Tommy" and "We love
you," the despatch riders of the finest and most famous of all Divisions
rode singing to the station, where we slept peacefully on straw beside a
large fire until the train came in and the Signal Company arrived.
Our entraining at Pont St Maxence began with a carouse and ended with a
cumulative disappointment. In the middle was the usual wait, a tiresome
but necessary part of all military evolutions. To entrain a Signal
Company sounds so simple. Here is the company--there is the train. But
first comes the man-handling of cable-carts on to trucks that were built
for the languid conveyance of perambulators. Then follows a little
horseplay, and only those who, like myself, regard horses as
unmechanical and self-willed instruments of war, know how terrifying a
sight and how difficult a task the emboxing of a company's horses can
be. Motor-cycles are heavy and have to be lifted, but they do not make
noises and jib and rear, and look every moment as if they were going to
fall backward on to the interested spectator.
We despatch riders fetched a great deal of straw and made ourselves
comfortable in one of those waggons that are marked outside, with such
splendid optimism--
_Chevaux_ . . . . 8
_Hommes_ . . . . 40-5
With our friend the Post-Sergeant and his underling there were roughly a
dozen of us and no superfluity of space, but, seeing men wandering
fiercely up and down the train under the command of our Sergeant-Major,
we took in a H.Q. clerk. This ruffled us, but it had to be done. The
Sergeant-Major came to our waggon. We stood at the door and pointed out
to him that we had in our waggon not only all the despatch riders, but
also the whole of the Postal and Headquarters Staffs. He said nothing to
us--only told ten more men to get in. Finally we were twenty-five in
all, with full equipment. Thinking of the 40-5 we settled down and
managed to effect a compromise of room which, to our amazement, left us
infinitely more comfortable than we had been in the III^{me} coming up
from Havre to Landrecies.
The train shuffled out of the station just before dawn. We slept a bit,
and then, just as it was getting light, started our pipes and began to
talk of the future.
The general opinion favoured Ostend, though a sergeant hazarded that we
were going to be shipped swiftly across to England to defend the East
Coast. This suggestion was voted impossible and tactless--at least, we
didn't put it quite like that. Ostend it was going to be--train to
Abbéville, and then boat to Ostend, and a rapid march against the German
flank.
The discussion was interrupted by somebody saying he had heard from
somebody who had been told by his Major, that 60,000 Germans had been
killed in the last two days, Von Kluck had been killed by a lucky shell,
and the Crown Prince had committed suicide. We were bringing the
cynicism of youth to bear on the trustfulness of a mature mercenary when
the train arrived at Amiens.
Some washed. Some meditated on a train of French wounded and another
train of Belgian refugees, humble and pitiful objects, very smelly. Two,
not waiting for orders, rushed to the buffet and bought beer and
sardines and chocolate and bread. One of these was cut off from his
waggon by a long goods train that passed through, but he knew the ways
of military trains, waited till the goods had passed, then ran after us
and caught us up after a mile's jog-trot. The good people of Amiens, who
had not so very long before been delivered from the Germans, were
exceedingly affectionate, and threw us fruit, flowers, and kisses. Those
under military age shrieked at the top of their shrill little trebles--
Engleesh--Tipperary--Biskeet--Biskeet--Souvenir.
We have never understood the cry of "Biskeet." The fat little fellows
were obviously well nourished. Perhaps, dog-like, they buried their
biscuits with a thought for the time when the English should be
forgotten and hunger should take their place as something very present.
So joyously we were rushed north at about five miles an hour, or eight
kilometres per hour, which sounds better. Early in the afternoon we came
to Abbéville, a hot and quiet station, and, with the aid of some London
Scottish, disembarked. From these Scots we learnt that the French were
having a rough time just north of Arras, that train-load upon train-load
of wounded had come through, that our Corps (the 2nd) was going up to
help.
So even now we do not know whether we really were going to Ostend and
were diverted to the La Bassée district to help the French who had got
themselves into a hole, or whether Ostend was somebody's little tale.
We rode through the town to the Great Barracks, where we were given a
large and clean ward. The washing arrangements were sumptuous and we had
truckle-beds to sleep upon, but the sanitation, as everywhere in France,
was vile. We kicked a football about on the drill-ground. Then some of
us went down into the town, while the rest of us waited impatiently for
them to come back, taking a despatch or two in the meanwhile.
From the despatch rider's point of view Abbéville is a large and
admiring town, with good restaurants and better baths. These baths were
finer than the baths of Havre--full of sweet-scented odours and the
deliciously intoxicating fumes of good soap and plenteous boiling-water.
In a little restaurant we met some friends of the 3rd Division and a
couple of London Scots, who were getting heartily sick of the L. of C.,
though taking prisoners round the outskirts of Paris had, I gather, its
charm even for the most ardent warriors.
In the morning there was parade, a little football, and then a stroll
into the town. I had just finished showing an Intelligence Officer how
to get a belt back on to the pulley of his motor-cycle when Cecil met me
and told me we were to move north that evening.
We had a delectable little tea, bought a map or two, and then strolled
back to the barracks. In half an hour we were ready to move off, kit
piled high upon our carriers, looking for all the world (said our C.O.)
like those funny little animals that carry their houses upon their backs
and live at the bottom of ponds. Indeed it was our boast that--such was
our ingenuity--we were able to carry more kit than any regimental
officer.
It was dusk when N'Soon and I pushed off,--we had remained behind to
deal with messages that might come in foolishly after the Division had
left. We took the great highroad to Calais, and, carefully passing the
General, who was clattering along with his staff and an escort of
Hussars, we pulled up to light our lamps at a little estaminet with
glowing red blinds just like the blinds of certain hospitable taverns in
the city of Oxford. The coincidence was so remarkable that we were
compelled to enter.
We found a roaring, leaping log-fire, a courteous old Frenchman who
drank our healths, an immense omelette, some particularly good coffee,
and the other despatch riders.
That night it was freezing hard. With our chairs drawn in close to the
fire, a glass of something to keep the cold out ready to hand, and pipes
going strong, we felt sorry for the general and his escort who, probably
with chilled lips and numbed fingers, jogged resoundingly through the
village street.
Twenty minutes later we took the road, and soon, pretending that we had
lost our way, again passed the general--and lost our way, or at least
rode well past our turning. Finally, colder than we had ever been
before, we reached the Chateau at Gueschart. There we found a charming
and hospitable son of the house and a pleasantly adoring lad. With
their aid we piled the floor of the harness-room with straw, and those
of us who were not on duty slept finely.
From the dawn of the next morning we were working at top pressure right
through the day, keeping in touch with the brigades which were billeted
in villages several miles distant.
Late in the afternoon we discovered we were very short of petrol, so I
was sent off to Crécy in our famous captured car, with a requisition. We
arrived amidst cheers. I strode into the nearest garage and demanded 100
litres of petrol. It was humbly brought and placed in the car: then I
sent boys flying round the town for jam and bread and butter, and in the
meantime we entertained the crowd by showing them a German helmet. I
explained volubly that my bandaged fingers--there was an affair of
outposts with an ambulance near Serches--were the work of shrapnel, and
they nearly embraced me. A boy came back and said there was no jam, so
the daughter of the house went to her private cupboard and brought me
out two jars of jam she had made herself, and an enormous glass of wine.
We drove off amidst more cheers, to take the wrong road out of the town
in our great excitement.
The brigades moved that night; headquarters remained at Gueschart until
dawn, when the general started off in his car with two of us attendant.
Now before the war a motor-cyclist would consider himself ill-used if he
were forced to take a car's dust for a mile or so. Your despatch rider
was compelled to follow in the wake of a large and fast Daimler for
twenty-five miles, and at the end of it he did not know which was him
and which dust.
We came upon the 15th, shivering in the morning cold, and waiting for
some French motor-buses. Then we rushed on to St Pol, which was crammed
full of French transport, and on to Chateau Bryas. Until the other
despatch riders came up there was no rest for the two of us that had
accompanied the car. The roads, too, were blocked with refugees flying
south from Lille and men of military age who had been called up. Once
again we heard the distant sound of guns--for the first time since we
had been at the Chateau of Longpont.
At last we were relieved for an hour, and taking possession of a kitchen
we fried some pork-chops with onions and potatoes. It was grand. We
washed them down with coffee, and went back to duty. For the remainder
of that day and for the whole of the night there was no rest for us.
At dawn the Division marched in column of route north-east towards the
sound of the guns.
Half of us at a time slipped away and fed in stinking taverns--but the
food was good.
I cannot remember a hotter day, and we were marching through a
thickly-populated mining district--the villages were uncomfortably like
those round Dour. The people were enthusiastic and generous with their
fruit and with their chocolate. It was very tiring work, because we were
compelled to ride with the Staff, for first one of us was needed and
then another to take messages up and down the column or across country
to brigades and divisions that were advancing along roads parallel to
ours. The old Division was making barely one mile an hour. The road was
blocked by French transport coming in the opposite direction, by 'buses
drawn up at the side of the road, and by cavalry that, trekking from the
Aisne, crossed our front continuously to take up their position away on
the left.
At last, about three o'clock in the afternoon, we reached the outskirts
of Béthune. The sound of the guns was very near, and to the east of the
town we could see an aeroplane haloed in bursting shrapnel.
The Staff took refuge first in an unsavoury field and afterwards in a
little house. Despatch after despatch until evening--and then, ordered
to remain behind to direct others, and cheered by the sight of our most
revered and most short-sighted staff-officer walking straight over a
little bridge into a deep, muddy, and stinking ditch, I took refuge in
the kitchen and experienced the discreeter pleasures of "the Force." The
handmaidens brought coffee, and brushed me and washed me and talked to
me. I was sorry when the time came for me to resume my beat, or rather
to ride with Cecil after the Division.
We passed some Turcos, happy-looking children but ill companions in a
hostile country, and some Spahis with flowing burnous, who looked
ridiculously out of place, and then, after a long search--it was dark on
the road and very cold--we found the Division.
I dined off a maconochie, and was wondering whether I dare lie down to
sleep, when I was called out to take a message to and remain at the 13th
Brigade. It was a bad night. Never was a man so cold in his life, and
the brigade had taken up its quarters in a farm situated in the centre
of a very labyrinth of country roads. But I had four hours' sleep when I
got there, while the others were up all the night.
There was no hurry in the morning. The orders were to join the Division
at a bridge just outside Béthune, a point which they could not possibly
reach before ten. So I got up late and had a glorious meal of soup,
omelette, and fruit in the town, waited on by a most excellent flapper
who wanted to know everything about everything. I reported at the Signal
Office, then occupying the lodge of the town cemetery, and was sent off
to catch the Devons. At the village where I waited for them I found some
Cuirassiers, genial fellows; but living helios in the burning sun. When
I returned the Division had moved along the north bank of the Canal to
Beuvry Station. The post picked us up, and in the joyous possession of
two parcels and some letters I unpacked my kit. We all settled down on
some moderately clean straw in the waiting-room of the station, and
there we remained for three full weeks.
Men talk of the battle of Ypres[15] as the finest achievement of the
British Army. There was one brigade there that had a past. It had fought
at Mons and Le Cateau, and then plugged away cheerfully through the
Retreat and the Advance. What was left of it had fought stiffly on the
Aisne. Some hard marching, a train journey, more hard marching, and it
was thrown into action at La Bassée. There it fought itself to a
standstill. It was attacked and attacked until, shattered, it was
driven back one wild night. It was rallied, and turning on the enemy
held them. More hard marching--a couple of days' rest, and it staggered
into action at Ypres, and somehow--no one knows how--it held its bit of
line. A brigade called by the same name, consisting of the same
regiments, commanded by the same general, but containing scarce a man of
those who had come out in August, marched very proudly away from Ypres
and went--not to rest--but to hold another bit of the line.
And this brigade was not the Guards Brigade. There were no picked men in
the brigade. It contained just four ordinary regiments of the line--the
Norfolks, the Bedfords, the Cheshires, and the Dorsets. What the 15th
Brigade did, other brigades have done.
Now little has been heard of this fighting round La Bassée in October,
so I wish I could tell you about it in more detail than I can. To my
thinking it was the finest fighting I have seen.
You will understand, then, how difficult it is for me to describe the
country round La Bassée. I might describe it as it appeared to me when
first we arrived--sunny and joyous, with many little farms and thick
hedges and rare factories--or as I saw it last, on a horrible yellowish
evening, shattered and black and flooded and full of ghosts.
Now when first we arrived news filtered through to us that La Bassée was
held only by a division of Jägers, plentifully supplied with artillery
and machine guns. I believe this was the fact. The Jägers held on
stubbornly until reinforcements came up. Instead of attacking we were
hard pressed, and had more than we could do to prevent the Germans in
their turn from breaking through. Indeed we had not a kick left in us
when the Division was relieved.
At the beginning it looked so simple. The British Army was wheeling
round on to the German right flank. We had the shortest distance to go,
because we formed the extreme British right. On our left was the 3rd
Division, and beyond the 3rd was the First Corps. On the left of the
First the Third Corps was sweeping on to Armentières.
Then Antwerp fell suddenly. The First Corps was rushed up to help the
Seventh Division which was trying to guard the right flank of the
Belgians in retirement along the coast. Thus some sort of very weak line
was formed from the sea to La Bassée. The Germans, reinforced by the
men, and more particularly by the guns that the fall of Antwerp had let
loose, attacked violently at Ypres and La Bassée. I do not say this is
what really happened. I am trying to tell you what we thought was
happening.
Think of us, then, in the heat of early October going into action on the
left of the French, confident that we had just a little opposition to
brush away in front of us before we concentrated in the square at La
Bassée.
At first the 13th Brigade was put into position south of the canal, the
15th Brigade attacked from the canal to the La Bassée-Estaires road, and
the 14th from the main road roughly to the Richebourgs. In the second
stage the French extended their line to the Canal, and the 13th became a
reserve brigade. In the third stage we had every man in the line--the
13th Brigade being split up between the 14th and 15th, and the French
sent two battalions to the north bank of the canal.
The work of the despatch riders was of two kinds. Three-quarters of us
rode between the divisional and the brigade headquarters. The rest were
attached to the brigades, and either used for miscellaneous work or held
in reserve so that communication might not be broken if the wires were
cut or smashed by shells.
One motor-cyclist went out every day to Lieutenant Chapman, who was
acting as liaison officer with the French. This job never fell to my
lot, but I am told it was exciting enough. The French general was an
intrepid old fellow, who believed that a general should be near his
fighting men. So his headquarters were always being shelled. Then he
would not retire, but preferred to descend into the cellar until the
evil times were overpast.
The despatch rider with Chapman had his bellyful of shells. It was
pleasant to sit calmly in a cellar and receive food at the hands of an
accomplished _chef_, and in more peaceful times there was opportunity to
study the idiosyncrasies of German gunners and the peculiar merits of
the Soixante-Quinze. But when the shelling was hottest there was usually
work for the despatch rider--and getting away from the unhealthy area
before scooting down the Annequin road was a heart-thumping job.
French generals were always considerate and hospitable to us despatch
riders. On our arrival at Béthune Huggie was sent off with a message to
a certain French Corps Commander. The General received him with a proper
French embrace, congratulated him on our English bravery, and set him
down to some food and a glass of good wine.
It was at La Bassée that we had our first experience of utterly
unrideable roads. North of the canal the roads were fair macadam in dry
weather and to the south the main road Béthune-Beuvry-Annequin was of
the finest pavé. Then it rained hard. First the roads became greasy
beyond belief. Starting was perilous, and the slightest injudicious
swerve meant a bad skid. Between Gorre and Festubert the road was vile.
It went on raining, and the roads were thickly covered with glutinous
mud. The front mud-guard of George's Douglas choked up with a lamentable
frequency. The Blackburne alone, the finest and most even-running of all
motor-cycles,[16] ran with unswerving regularity.
Finally, to our heartburning sorrow, there were nights on which
motor-cycling became impossible, and we stayed restlessly at home while
men on the despised horse carried our despatches. This we could not
allow for long. Soon we became so skilled that, if I remember correctly,
it was only on half a dozen nights in all right through the winter that
the horsemen were required.
It was at La Bassée too that we had our second casualty. A despatch
rider whom we called "Moulders" came in one evening full of triumph. A
bullet had just grazed his leg and the Government was compelled to
provide him with a new puttee. We were jealous, and he was proud.
We slept in that room which was no room, the entrance-hall of Beuvry
Station. It was small and crowded. The floor was covered with straw
which we could not renew. After the first fortnight the population of
this chamber increased rapidly; one or two of us spoke of himself
hereafter in the plural. They gave far less trouble than we had
expected, and, though always with some of us until the spring, suffered
heavy casualties from the use of copious petrol and the baking of washed
shirts in the village oven.
We had been given a cook of our own. He was a youth of dreamy habits and
acquisitive tastes, but sometimes made a good stew. Each one of us
thought he himself was talented beyond the ordinary, so the cook never
wanted assistance--except perhaps in the preparing of breakfast. Food
was good and plentiful, while the monotony of army rations was broken by
supplies from home and from Béthune. George, thank heaven, was still
with us.
Across the bridge was a shop where you could buy anything from a pair of
boots to a kilo of vermicelli. Those of us who were not on duty would
wander in about eleven in the morning, drink multitudinous bowls of
coffee at two sous the bowl, and pass the time of day with some of the
cyclists who were billeted in the big brewery. Just down the road was a
tavern where infernal cognac could be got and occasionally good red
wine.
Even when there was little to do, the station was not dull. French
hussars, dainty men with thin and graceful horses, rode over the bridge
and along the canal every morning. Cuirassiers would clatter and swagger
by--and guns, both French and English. Behind the station much
ammunition was stored, a source of keen pleasure if ever the Germans had
attempted to shell the station. It was well within range. During the
last week His Majesty's armoured train, "Jellicoe," painted in wondrous
colours, would rumble in and on towards La Bassée. The crew were full of
Antwerp tales and late newspapers. The first time the train went into
action it demolished a German battery, but afterwards it had little
luck.
The corps was at Hinges. If work were slack and the Signal Sergeant
were kind, he would give one of us a bunch of messages for the corps,
with the hint that the return might be made at leisure. Between Hinges
and Beuvry lay Béthune. Hinges deserves a word.
When first the corps came to Hinges, the inhabitants were exalted. The
small boys came out in puttees and the women put ribbons in their hair.
Now, if you pronounce Hinges in the French fashion, you give forth an
exclamation of distressful pain. The name cannot be shouted from a
motor-cycle. It has its difficulties even for the student of French. So
we all called it, plainly and bluntly, Hinges, as though it were
connected to a door. The inhabitants noticed this. Thinking that they
and their forefathers had been wrong--for surely these fine men with red
hats knew better than they--the English pronunciation spread. The
village became 'Ingees, and now only some unfashionable dotards in
Béthune preserve the tradition of the old pronunciation. It is not only
Hinges that has been thus decently attired in British garb. Le Cateau is
Lee Catòo. Boescheppe is Bo-peep. Ouderdon is Eiderdown.
Béthune was full of simple pleasures. First there were the public baths,
cheap and good, and sundry coiffeurs who were much in demand, for they
made you smell sweetly. Then there was a little blue and white café. The
daughter of the house was well-favoured and played the piano with some
skill. One of us spent all his spare time at this café in silent
adoration--of the piano, for his French was exiguous in the extreme.
There was a patisserie crammed full of the most delicious cream-cakes.
The despatch rider who went to Hinges about 3.30 P.M. and did not return
with cakes for tea, found life unpleasant. Near the station three
damsels ruled a tavern. They were friendly and eager to teach us French.
We might have left them with a sigh of regret if we had not once arrived
as they were eating their midday meal.
At one time the Germans dropped a few shells into Béthune, but did
little damage. Bombs fell too. One nearly ended the existence of
"Sadders"--also known as "Boo." It dropped on the other side of the
street; doing our despatch rider no damage, it slightly wounded Sergeant
Croucher of the Cyclists in a portion of his body that made him swear
when he was classed as a "sitting-up case."
Of all the towns behind the lines--Béthune, Estaires, Armentières,
Bailleul, Poperinghe--Béthune is the pleasantest. The people are
charming. There is nothing you cannot buy there. It is clean and
well-ordered, and cheerful in the rain. I pray that Béthune may survive
the war--that after peace has been declared and Berlin has been entered,
I may spend a week there and much money to the profit of the people and
the satisfaction of myself.
Now I will give some account of our adventures out with the brigades
round La Bassée.
[Illustration: ROUND LA BASSÉE]
FOOTNOTES:
[15] The first--in October and November.
[16] This is not an unthinking advertisement. After despatch riding from
August 16 to February 18 my judgment should be worth something. I am
firmly convinced that if the Government could have provided all despatch
riders with Blackburnes, the percentage--at all times small--of messages
undelivered owing to mechanical breakdowns or the badness of the roads
would have been reduced to zero. I have no interest in the Blackburne
Company beyond a sincere admiration of the machine it produces.