e crowd was squeezed
into carriage accommodation barely sufficient for two-thirds of its
number, and we left Arriere. Two French and ten British officers
obtained a minimum of space in my compartment. We sorted out our legs,
arms, and luggage, and tried to rest.

In my case sleep was ousted by thoughts of what was ahead. Ten days'
freedom in England! The stout major on my left snored. The head of the
hard-breathing Frenchman to the right slipped on to my shoulder. An
unkempt subaltern opposite wriggled and turned in a vain attempt to find
ease. I was damnably cramped, but above all impatient for the morrow. A
passing train shrieked. Cold whiffs from the half-open window cut the
close atmosphere. Slowly, and with frequent halts for the passage of war
freights more urgent than ourselves, our train chugged northward. One
hour, two hours, three hours of stuffy dimness and acute discomfort.
Finally I sank into a troubled doze. When we were called outside
Boulogne, I found my hand poised on the stout major's bald head, as if
in benediction.

The soldier on leave, eager to be done with the preliminary journey,
chafes at inevitable delay in Boulogne. Yet this largest of channel
ports, in its present state, can show the casual passer-by much that is
interesting. It has become almost a new town during the past three
years. Formerly a headquarters of pleasure, a fishing centre and a
principal port of call for Anglo-Continental travel, it has been
transformed into an important military base. It is now wholly of the
war; the armies absorb everything that it transfers from sea to railway,
from human fuel for war's blast-furnace to the fish caught outside the
harbour. The multitude of visitors from across the Channel is larger
than ever; but instead of Paris, the Mediterranean, and the East, they
are bound for less attractive destinations--the muddy battle-area and
Kingdom Come.

The spirit of the place is altogether changed. From time immemorial
Boulogne has included an English alloy in its French composition, but
prior to the war it shared with other coastal resorts of France an
outlook of smiling carelessness. Superficially it now seems more British
than French, and, partly by reason of this, it impresses one as being
severely business-like. The great number of khaki travellers is rivalled
by a huge colony of khaki Base workers. Except for a few matelots,
French fishermen, and the wharfside cafes, there is nothing to
distinguis