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    At Souchez, we moved into the line again, taking over gun positions vacated by the French. Here I was immediately faced with an ordeal: the French battery had already left, and I was faced with no indication as to the position of our front line trenches or that of the enemy. There were no telephone lines, nor any information as regards observation posts; the only thing for me to do was to reconnoitre for myself over ground which had been taken and retaken a dozen times, where not an inch was left unpitted by shell craters. I crawled through rotted fragments of French and German dead whose clothes had long since crumbled away, so that the only distinguishing marks were the long top boots of the Germans and the shorter ones of the French. Covered with mud, raked by machine-gun and shell fire, I reached our front line trenches, where I quickly established contact with battalion headquarters. Telephone lines were laid. As soon as I could get back to the battery we got the range, and were ready for all eventualities.
    On the third day after taking up this position, my leave fell due. The enemy were to have one more crack at me, howeverbefore I entrained. At railhead, sparks from the locomotive betrayed us to a raiding German plane. In the darkness of the night, we heard the drone of its motor, the whistle of the bomb, then crash! We scattered as fast as our legs could carry us while three more bombs fell in quick succession. We had visions of an enforced return to the trenches; but, to our relief, the train was untouched, and other damage we did not care about. Within the hour, we were on our way to Boulogne and ‘Blighty’. I was not to see the Front again.

CHAPTER 3
I ENTER THE BRITISH SECRET SERVICE
    L EAVE FOR MOST of us colonials and overseas men, with no family or relatives in England, had resolved itself into a mad three days without sleep, doing a round of night clubs and shows, with companions of the opposite sex, not always well chosen. I had been no better or worse than the others. For all we knew, we might never return on another leave.
    To me all this had brought a reaction of strong distaste, and on this particular leave I was grateful and happy to have a letter of introduction from a brother officer to his sister. She was a charming, highly intelligent girl, with a job at the War Office. We saw a great deal of each other, dining together, and seeingsome of the better plays; starved for companionship, I told her a great deal about myself, especially about my travels. She listened with her eyes shining, but I was not allowed for a moment to fancy that she was a modern Desdemona – her excitement was all for the service.
    ‘What a pity you cannot get into intelligence!’ she cried. ‘You are just the man they are looking for. They have the greatest difficulty in finding an officer with military experience who speaks French, German, and Dutch, and who is thoroughly acquainted with the countries. The difficulty, of course, is Dutch,’ she added. ‘It is remarkable how few Englishmen speak it. It is typical of us as a race – we always expect the foreigner to speak our own language.’ I laughed at her remark. Wasn’t I returning to France that evening?
    On arrival at Folkestone, ready to embark for Boulogne, we wretches leaving ‘Blighty’ were told that since a German submarine had been sighted outside, we could return to London, and report back the next evening. I woke next morning at the Waldorf Hotel with a fever and a body rash. Frantically I dashed to the nearest military hospital. My case was diagnosed as German measles, and to bed I was ordered. Entrance into a hospital in England automatically transferred one from the Overseas Command to that of the War Office. I realised that this meant I was now free to apply for the post my enthusiastic friend had mentioned. As I convalesced, I turned the matter over in my mind, and over the phone, I discussed it with her. She promised to talk to her