our Division, and amongst those who were on
the Aisne, and are still with the Division, it has become a phrase for
encouragement--"Only another Conde."

During the first days on this monotonous river, the days when we
attacked, the staff of our right brigade advanced for a time into open
country and took cover behind the right haystack of three. To this
brigade Huggie took a message early one morning, and continued to take
messages throughout the day because--this was his excuse--he knew the
road. It was not until several months later that I gathered by chance
what had happened on that day, for Huggie, quite the best despatch rider
in our Division, would always thwart my journalistic curiosity by
refusing resolutely to talk about himself. The rest of us swopped yarns
of an evening.

These haystacks were unhealthy: so was the approach to them. First one
haystack was destroyed. The brigade went to the next. This second was
blown to bits. The staff took refuge behind the third. In my letters I
have told you of the good things the other despatch riders in our
Division have done, but to keep up continuous communication all day with
this be-shelled and refugee brigade was as fine a piece of despatch
riding as any. It received its proper reward, as you know.

Afterwards the brigade emigrated to a hillside above Ciry, and remained
there. Now the German gunner in whose sector Ciry was included should
not be dismissed with a word. He was a man of uncertain temper and
accurate shooting, for in the first place he would shell Ciry for a few
minutes at any odd time, and in the second he knocked a gun out in three
shells and registered accurately, when he pleased, upon the road that
led up a precipitous hill to the edge of the Serches hollow. On this
hill he smashed some regimental transport to firewood and killed a dozen
horses, and during one of his sudden shellings of the village blew a
house to pieces just as a despatch rider, who had been told the village
that morning was healthy, rode by.

You must not think that we were for ever scudding along, like the
typical "motor-cyclist scout" in the advertisements, surrounded with
shells. There was many a dull ride even to Bucy-le-Long. An expedition
to the Div. Train (no longer an errant and untraceable vagabond) was
safe and produced jam. A ride to Corps Headquarters was only dangerous
because of the innumerable and bloodthirsty sentries surrounding that
stronghold.

One afternoo