There was plenty of excitement on deck while the horses of the regimental transport were being shipped into the hold.

To induce “Light Draft,” “Heavy Draft” horses and “Officers’ Chargers”—­in all some sixty animals—­to trust themselves to be lowered into a dark and evil-smelling cavern, was no easy matter.  Some shied from the gangway, neighing; other walked peaceably on to it, and, with a “thus far and no farther” expression in every line of their bodies, took up a firm stand, and had to be pushed into the hold with the combined weight of many men.  Several of the transport section narrowly escaped death and mutilation at the hands, or rather hoofs, of the Officers’ Chargers.  Meanwhile a sentry, with fixed bayonet, was observed watching some Lascars, who were engaged in getting the transport on board.  It appeared that the wretched fellows, thinking that they were to be taken to France and forced to fight the Germans, had deserted to a man on the previous night, and had had to be routed out of their hiding-places in Southampton.

Not that such a small thing as that could upset for one moment the steady progress of the Embarkation of the Army.  It was like a huge, slow-moving machine; there was a hint of the inexorable in its exactitude.  Nothing had been forgotten—­not even eggs for the Officers’ breakfast in the Captain’s cabin.

Meanwhile the other ships were filling up.  By midday they began to slide down the Solent, and guesses were being freely exchanged about the destination of the little flotilla.  Some said Boulogne, others Calais; but the general opinion was Havre, though nobody knew for certain, for the Captain of the ship had not yet opened his sealed orders.  The transports crept slowly along the coast of the Isle of Wight, but it was not until evening that the business of crossing the Channel was begun in earnest.

The day had been lovely, and Officers and men had spent it mostly in sleeping and smoking upon the deck.  Spirits had risen as the day grew older.  For at dawn the cheeriest optimist is a pessimist, while at midday pessimists become optimists.  In the early morning the German Army had been invincible.  At lunch the Battalion was going to Berlin, on the biggest holiday of its long life!

The Subaltern, still suffering from the after-effects of inoculation against enteric, which had been unfortunately augmented by a premature indulgence in fruit, and by the inability to rest during the rush of mobilisation, did not spend a very happy night.  The men fared even worse, for the smell of hot, cramped horses, steaming up from the lower deck, was almost unbearable.  But their troubles were soon over, for by seven o’clock the boat was gliding through the crowded docks of Havre.

Naturally most of the Mess had been in France before, but to Tommy it was a world undiscovered.  The first impression made on the men was created by a huge negro working on the docks.  He was greeted with roars of laughter, and cries of, “Hallo, Jack Johnson!” The red trousers of the French sentries, too, created a tremendous sensation.  At length the right landing-stage was reached.  Equipments were thrown on, and the Battalion was paraded on the dock.