m
done, but they were evidently looking for our camp, for two days after
we left it, it was properly bombed.

Well, after we got our equipment, we were kept busy for a couple of
days signing sheets and undergoing kit inspection, but finally
everything was attended to and we were ready to start. It was a hot
day when we "fell in" for our eight-mile hike to ----, and when I had
all my kit in place, I think I must have looked like a snail who
carries his house packed on his back. Well, the farther we went the
heavier our load became. Our feet were tortured by the new stiff
boots; some of the boys took theirs off and walked in their socks, but
these had their feet cut and bruised by the stones which plentifully
bestrewed our way. Oh, how we cursed our officers for making us wear
our new boots for the first time on such a hike. We should have had
them long enough ahead to get them broken in. Well, some of the boys
fell out, but the rest of us struggled on, and at last, just at dark,
we reached the pier. We were dripping with perspiration, and we had
eaten nothing except our army ration. Well, we sat around till we all
got cold; and then, to our utter amazement and disgust, the order came,
not to embark, but to "right-about-turn"; and with much swearing and
grousing, we commenced what was afterwards known among the 6th Brigade
as "The Retreat from Folkestone." Of course the officers weren't to
blame--some mines had broken loose in the Channel, and until they were
looked after by the mine sweepers it wasn't safe to cross. Oh, that
march! no one who went through it will ever forget what we went
through. In all my experience in France, I never carried such a pack.
And after going a short distance on the return trip, the boys, like
sinking ships, began to get rid of their cargo--for miles that road was
strewn with boots, shirts, sweaters, cap covers, all kinds of
articles--then the boys themselves began to fall out, and the dog-tired
men rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down in their tracks.
By the way, we were not going back to Folkestone, but were bound for a
place known as "Sir John Moore's Plain"; but nobody knew how far it
was, nor the quickest way to get there; some went one way and some
another. Our battalion kept on going with frequent rests; we were
dripping with sweat, and when the men sat down to rest they were too
tired and disgusted to even swear. Finally our officers turned to us
and said, "