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By Root 1932 0

brew, playing for time and racking his brains. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Boiled beef, sir.’ All that occurred to Lieutenant Langley were the queries ‘Is it beef?’ and ‘Is it boiled?’ – and he could see that that was ridiculous. The expected response – and universal escape-route in awkward situations – was a laconic ‘Very good. Carry on, Sergeant’, but these words completely escaped him. The cooks were waiting expectantly. Langley, now uncomfortably enveloped in steam, went on earnestly scrutinising the contents of the dixie. How was he meant to ‘inspect’ the food? He was finally driven by heat and desperation to prodding the beef gingerly with the end of his short Malacca cane. And then, at last, the blessed formula came to mind. ‘Very good. Carry on, Sergeant.’ The cooks sportingly showed no sign of astonishment. Later a few scornful words from the Adjutant, who had happened to be passing the open cookhouse door (and also happened to be Langley’s elder brother), put the over-zealous inspector right.

But, like other battalions of the 46th Division, the 6th South Staffs had been licked into shape and trained for war service. Now they were to have the honour of being the first division composed entirely of Territorials to go to the front and the Commanding Officer of the 6th South Staffs was determined that their arrival should not go unnoticed. He had issued orders to the company officers to ensure that every man was familiar with the tune of the French national anthem and, although he was not so ambitious as to expect them to learn the words, he insisted that they should practise whistling it. The Battalion enthusiastically took to the idea, were encouraged by the officers to rehearse it on route marches and picked it up in no time. They were whistle perfect long before they embarked for France. It was not easy to fit English words to the tune of ‘The Marseillaise’ but, as the weeks passed, a few wags were moved to vary the eternal whistling by warbling When are we go-ing, when are we go-o-ing, When are we go-ing to the front? But they could get no further. Neither, it seemed, could the battalion.

Their departure was delayed so long, and every man had been home on his ‘last’ forty-eight-hour pass so often that his family, who had bidden him an emotional goodbye on the first occasion, became blasé, if not downright bored, by numerous repeat performances of ‘The Soldier’s Farewell’. Even the men got fed up with it and it was a relief to all when they finally embarked on 5 March. The departure from Southampton was thrilling.

2nd Lt. F. Best, Army Service Corps, 46 Div. Supply Column.

The sea was absolutely calm. I counted fourteen searchlights looking aimlessly for aircraft and the water was raked by as many horizontal ones on the lookout for submarines while we were gliding down the Solent. The water looked a dazzling blue green in the zone of light. A more gorgeous sight you couldn’t imagine – the coloured lights and signals, the still water and the misty land disappearing gradually into the haze. Further south a couple of destroyers escorted us – little black streaks ploughing along in the dull light. That made us feel very secure. It suddenly occurred to me that we were performing the famous tableau I’d seen so often as a lad at Hamilton’s Panorama – it was called Troopship Leaving Southampton.

We anchored among several other vessels outside the harbour of Le Havre, with French and English destroyers flitting round us all the time. Then the pilot led us in. We took a short time to land and proceeded to a large shed at the side of the line a mile and a half from the dock. We were joined later by masses of others. The troops and citizens in Le Havre were startled by the spectacle of an officer charging through the town at break-neck speed, taking no notice of tram lines or level crossings – sparks flying from the granite setts. This was Eric Milner on a stylish looking charger he’d selected from the Remount Depot at Southampton when his own horse Jingly Geordie died there of cold. He was some miles on the other side of