It was August 15^th 1914, the great war of Europe, WWI, was in its infancy and I was part of the first British troop movements into France. Leaving the transport ships behind us and marching into our camps in Boulogne, I studied my surroundings and couldn’t help thinking:

                Watch us as we pass, every man in our prime of life, not a youth or stripling among us. Our shirts are open at the front, and as we shout you can see the working of the muscles of our throats, our wide open mouths and rows of dazzling teeth. Every movement spells fitness for the field, for long marches by day and longer nights in the trenches.

                You can see us again, with our sun-kissed brown, jolly faces, full of laughter, and hear us still shouting and singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go," while the officers, with their quiet, confident smiles ride between, raising hands in salute to our French comrades in arms on the pavements.

                This morning’s daily says with justice: “The gallant bearing of the men, their confidence, fine looks, muscular appearance, as well as their splendid conduct, are of happy augury. If physical strength and a happy disposition, added to fine training, can win the day, these troops will add many a battle name to their roll of victories.“

                It’s a wonderful invasion I thought to myself. How many more thousands are to come, no one knows. Transport after transport glides into the harbour or ranges along the quay where the Folkestone boats lie moored, and out they come each man neat and clean, as for parade, hard and fit......