It is an odd coincidence that the last words of this War Diary should be penned by candlelight in a darkened northern town, to the sound of bombs falling on an entirely defenceless city. With the truly sporting instinct of Britons, everyone has turned out to see what they may of the "fuss" by which our humane foe hopes to terrorise us. By the light of flares the great marauding machines of destruction are seen to hover apparently stationary. It is a fitting moment to add a note of apology to this book, of apology to those whose homes have been ravished and who might, therefore, resent the reflection that as yet our Island has not felt the full pinch of war; of apology to those and of explanation.

For it is needless to say this diary was originally kept for purely personal reasons, with no idea of publication, but from the desire one day to make good to those at home the silences enforced by a rigorous censor.

Seeing, however, that the interest manifested in our existence at the Base seems general enough to warrant the appearance of these pages, and seeing there is no one else to tell the tale, I send my little volume into the world with the prayer that it may give to those who would know, some idea of Boulogne as she now is, that it may carry one or two momentarily away from their own sufferings.

To achieve this is all I ask.

If in some parts I have spoken too freely, I crave forgiveness on the score that I have but recounted things as we saw them at the time. If, on the other hand, there are many omissions, it must be noted that a War Diary published during war time is of necessity much expurgated to meet the demands of the censor. Nor would it be in the interests of anyone to tell of chance meetings with well-known men and women whose rÔle in the Great Game has not yet been brought to light.

And for any dates misplaced I must plead the extenuating circumstances of a busy, restless life that left little leisure for the keeping of a detailed daily diary.

Of the many friends who are still carrying on the work out there I have spoken but little, not because there is little to say, but because my heart is too full of the great work they are doing, and the memory of little kindnesses rendered to a derelict in the midst of so much that is more pressing. May they in their turn, if time renders them "scrapped" and useless, find joy in the remembrance of their work, and peace in the hope of one day serving again.

As Kipling has it:

Yorkshire, May, 1916.

Printed by
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London, E.C.
f.20.1016