The Amateur Army, by Patrick MacGill.

"I see that, boy, I see that! But, damn it, don't make a crutch of it. You're a soldier now, my man, and not a crippled one yet."

Thus was the rifle introduced to us. We had long waited for its coming, and dreamt of cross-guns, the insignia of a crack shot's proficiency, while we waited. And with the rifle came romance, and the element of responsibility. We were henceforward fighting men, numbered units, it was true, with numbered weapons, but for all that, fighters—men trained to the trade and licensed to the profession.

Our new friend was rather a troublesome individual to begin with. In rising to the slope he had the trick of breaking free and falling on the muddy barrack square. A muddy rifle gets rusty, and brings its owner into trouble, and a severe penalty is considered meet for the man who comes on parade with a rusty rifle. Bringing the friend from the slope to the order was a difficult process for us recruits at the start the back-sight tore at the fingers, and bleeding hands often testified to the unnatural instinct of the rebellious weapon. But the unkindest kick of all was given when the slack novice fired the first shot, and the heel of the butt slipped upwards and struck the jaw. Then was learnt the first real lesson. The rifle kicks with the heel and aims for the jaw. Control your friend, humour him; keep him well in hand and beware his fling.

I was unlucky in my first rifle practice on the miniature range, and out of my first five shots I did not hit the target once. The instructor lay by my side on the waterproof ground-sheet (the day was a wet one, and the range was muddy) and lectured me between misses on the peculiarities of my weapon and the cultivation of a steady eye.

"Keep the beggar under control," he said. "You've got to coax him, and not use force. Pull the trigger easily, as though you loved it, and hold the butt affectionate-like against the shoulder. It's an easy matter to shoot as you're shooting now. There's shooting and shooting, and you've got to shoot straight. If you don't you're no dashed good! Give me the rifle, you're not aiming at the bull, man, you're aiming at the locality where the bull is grazing."

He took my rifle, slid a cartridge into the breech, and coaxed the trigger lovingly towards him. Three times he fired, then we went together to look at the target. Not a bullet fired by him had struck it. The instructor glared down the barrel of the gun, made some nasty remarks about deflection, and went back to yell at an orderly corporal.

"What the dickens did you take this here for?" he cried. "It's a blooming wash-out,¹ and was never any good. Old as an unpaid bill and worn bell-mouth it is, and nobody can fire with it."

On a new rifle being obtained I passed the preliminary test, and a rather repentant instructor remarked that it might be possible to make a soldier of me some day.

Since then my fellow-soldiers and I have had almost unlimited rifle practice, on miniature and open ranges, at bull and disappearing targets, in field firing at distances from 100 to 600 yards. On a field exceeding 600 yards it is almost impossible to hit a point the size of an ordinary bull; fire then must be directed towards a position. Field or volley firing is very interesting. Once my company took train to Dunstable and advanced on an imaginary enemy that occupied the wastes of the Chiltern Hills. Practice commenced by firing at little squares of iron standing upright in a row about 200 yards off in front of our line. These represented heads and shoulders of men rising over the trenches to take aim at us as we advanced. In extended order we came to our position, 200 yards distant from the front trenches. At the sound of the officer's whistle, we sank to the ground, facing our front, fixed our sights, and loaded. A second whistle was blown; we fired "three rounds rapid" at the foe. The aiming was very accurate; little spurts of earth danced up and around the targets, and every iron disc fell. The "searching ground," the locality struck by bullets, scarcely measured a dozen paces from front to rear, thus showing that there was very little erratic firing.

"They might shoot back," someone said, "and then we mightn't take as cool an aim."

We are trained to the rifle; it is always with us, on parade, on march, on bivouac, and recently, when going through a dental examination, we carried our weapons of war into the medical officer's room. As befits units of a rifle regiment, we have got accustomed to our gun, and now, as fully trained men, we have established the necessary unity between hand and eye, and can load and unload our weapon with butt-plate stiff to shoulder and eye steady on target while the operation is in progress. In fact, our rifle comes to hand as easy as a walking-stick. We shall be sorry to lose it when the war is over, and no doubt we shall feel lonely without it.

CHAPTER V

The Coffee-Shop and Wankin

What the pump is to the villager, so the coffee-shop is to the soldier of the New Army. Here the men crowd nightly and live over again the incidents of the day. Our particular coffee-shop is situated in our corner of the town; our men patronise it; there are three assistants, plump, merry girls, and three of our men have fallen in love with them; in short, it is our very own restaurant, opened when we came here, and adapted to our needs; the waitresses wear our hat-badges, sing our songs, and make us welcome when we cross the door to take up our usual chairs and yarn over the cosy tables. The Jersey youth with the blue eyes, the Oxford man, who speaks of things that humble waitresses do not understand, the company drummer, the platoon sergeants, and the Cockney who vows that water is spoilt in making every cup of coffee he drinks, all come here, and all love the place.

I have come to like the place and do most of my writing there, catching snatches of conversation and reminiscence as they float across to me.

"I wasn't meanin' to 'urt ole Ginger Nobby nohow, but the muck I throwed took 'im dead on the jor. 'Wot's yer gime?' 'e 'ollers at me. 'Wot's my gime?' I says back to 'im. 'Nuffin', if ye want ter know!' I says. 'I was just shyin' at squidges.'"

Thus spoke the bright-eyed Cockney at the table next me, gazing regretfully at his empty coffee-cup and cutting away a fringe of rag-nails from his finger with a clasp-knife. The time was eight o'clock of the evening, and the youth was recounting an adventure which he had had in the morning when throwing mud at sparrows on the parade ground. A lump of clay had struck a red-haired non-commissioned officer on the jaw, and the officer became angry. The above was the Cockney version of the story. One of my friends, an army unit with the Oxford drawl, was voluble on another subject.

"Russian writers have had a great effect on our literature," he said, deep in a favourite topic. "They have stripped bare the soul of man with a realism that shrivels up our civilisation and proves—Two coffees, please."

A tall, well-set waitress, with several rings on her fingers, took the order as gravely as if she were performing some religious function; then she turned to the Cockney.

"Cup of cawfee, birdie!" he cried, leaning over the table and trying to grip her hand. "Not like the last, mind; it was good water spoilt. I'll never come in 'ere again."

"Round the corner, of course," was the answer. "There's another bird there—and cawfee! It's some stuff too, not like 'ere."

The Cockney got his second cup of coffee and pronounced it inferior to the first; then looked at an evening paper which Oxford handed to him, and studied a photograph of a battleship on the front page.

"Can't stand these 'ere papers," he said, after a moment, as he got to his feet and lit a cigarette. "Nuffink but war in them always; I'm sick readin' about war! I saw your bit in one a couple of nights ago," he said, turning to me.

"What did you think of it?" I asked, anxious to hear his opinion on an article dealing with the life of his own regiment.

"Nuffink much," he answered, honestly and frankly. "Everything you say is about things we all know; who wants to 'ear about them? D'ye get paid for writin' that?"

One of his mates, a youth named Bill, who came in at that moment, overheard the remark.

"Paid! Of course 'e gets paid," said the newcomer. "Bet you he gets 'arf a crown for every time 'e writes for the paper."

All sorts and conditions of soldiers drift into the place and discuss various matters over coffee and mince pies; they are men of all classes, who had been as far apart as the poles in civil life, and are now knit together in the common brotherhood of war. Caste and estate seem to have been forgotten; all are engaged in a common business, full of similar risks, and rewarded by a similar wage.

In one corner of the room a game of cards was in progress, some soldiers were reading, and a few writing letters. Now and again a song was heard, and a score of voices joined in the chorus. The scene was one of indescribable gaiety; the temperament of the assembly was like a hearty laugh, infectious and healthy. Now and then a discussion took place, and towards the close of the evening hot words were exchanged between Bill and his friend, the bright-eyed Cockney.

In the coffee-shop Wankin is invariably the centre of an interested group. As the company scapegrace and black sheep of the battalion he occupies in his mates' eyes a position of considerable importance. His repartees are famous, and none knows better than he how to score off an unpopular officer or N.C.O. He has the distinction also of having spent more days in the guard-room than any other man in the battalion.

On the occasion when identity discs were being served out to the men and a momentary stir pervaded the battalion, it was Wankin who first became involved in trouble.

He employed the disc string to fasten the water-bottle of the man on his left to the haversack of the man on his right, and the colour-sergeant, livid with rage, vowed to chasten him by confining him eternally to barracks. But the undaunted company scapegrace was not to be beaten. Fastening the identity disc on his left eye he fixed a stern look on the sergeant.

"My deah fellah," he drawled out, imitating the voice of the company lieutenant who wears an eyeglass, "your remarks are uncalled for, really. By Jove! one would think that a scrap of string was a gold bracelet or a diamond necklace. I could buy the disc and the string for a bloomin' 'apenny."

"You'll pay dearly for it this time," said the colour with fine irony. "Three days C.B.² your muckin' about'll cost you." And before Wankin could reply the sergeant was reporting the matter to the captain.

Wankin is eternally in trouble, although his agility in dodging pickets and his skill in making a week's C.B. a veritable holiday are the talk of the regiment. All the officers know him, and many of them who have been victims of his smart repartee fear him more than they care to acknowledge. The subaltern with the eyeglass is a bad route-marcher, and Wankin once remarked in an audible whisper that the officer had learned his company drill with a drove of haltered pack-horses, and the officer bears the name of "Pack-horse" ever since.

On another occasion the major suffered when a battalion kit inspection took place early one December morning. Wankin had sold his spare pair of boots, the pair that is always kept on top of the kit-bag; but when the major inspected Wankin's kit the boots were there, newly polished and freed from the most microscopic speck of dust. Someone tittered during the inspection, then another, and the major smelt a rat. He lifted Wankin's kit-bag in his hand and found Wankin's feet tucked under it—Wankin's feet in stockinged soles. The major was justly indignant. "One step to the front, left turn," he roared. "March in front of every rank in the battalion and see what you think of it!"

With stockinged feet, cold, but still wearing an inscrutable smile of impudence, Wankin paraded in front of a thousand grinning faces and in due course got back to his kit and beside the sarcastic major.

"I don't think much of it, sir," Wankin replied. "It's the dirtiest regiment I ever inspected."

Wankin was sometimes unlucky; fortune refused to favour him when he took up the work of picket on the road between St. Albans and London. No unit of his regiment is supposed to go more than two miles beyond St. Albans without a written permit, and guards are placed at different points of the two-mile radius to intercept the regimental rakes whose feet are inclined to roving. Wankin learned that the London road was not to be guarded on a certain Sunday. The regiment was to parade for a long route-march, and all units were to be in attendance. Wankin pondered over things for a moment, girt on his belt and sword and took up his position on the London road within a hundred yards of a wayside public-house. At this tavern a traveller from St. Albans may obtain a drink on a Sabbath day.

Soldiers, like most mortals, are sometimes dry and like to drink; Wankin was often dry and Wankin had seldom much money to spend. The first soldier who came out from the town wanted to get to the tavern.

"Them colds are dangerous," Wankin remarked in a contemplative voice, tinged with compassion. "Used to have them bad myself an' I feel one coming on. I think gin, same as they have in the trenches, is the stuff to put a cold away. But I'm on the rocks."

"It's risky," said Wankin, then in a brave burst of bravado he said, "Damn it all! I'll let you go by. It's hard to stew dry so near the bar!" An hour later the young man set off towards home, and on his way he met two of his comrades-in-arms on the road.

"Going to see that no one does go near it," was the answer. "Picket duty for the rest of the day, we are."

The young man explained, and shortly afterwards Wankin went to headquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his head sticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had not heard of the London road escapade.

"You fool," he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this damned place for the canteen?"

I like Wankin and most of his mates like him. We feel that when detention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be things of yesterday, Wankin will make a good and trustworthy friend in the trenches.

CHAPTER VI

The Night Side of Soldiering

There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone save officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on the gravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub against trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the moving battalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, looks like the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging its cumbrous length along. The silence is full of mystery, the gigantic mass, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, a dumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternal sorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marching thus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster is full of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious to danger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal, and certain of its mission.

A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven in the evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet, water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the town out into the open country. The night varied in temper—sometimes it rained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; and once we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the whole county—the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snug farmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-clad soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.

We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along the sloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built. Giggling girls watched us depart—they are ever there when the soldiers are on the move—old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck as we passed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the left or right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we were marching at attention, with arms at the trail.

The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched and anæmic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled into a ball. Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown line curving round a corner ahead, the butt-plates of the rifles sparkling brightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward and forward at every move of the men.

Half an hour had passed, and we were now in the open country. At the word of command rifles were slung over the shoulders, and the battalion found voice, first in brisk conversation and exchange of witticisms, then in shouting and song. We have escaped from the tyranny of "Tipperary," none of us sing it now, but that doggerel is replaced by other music-hall abominations which are at present in the full glory of their rocket-reign. A parody of a hymn, "Toiling on," is also popular, and my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left.

"Lager beer! lager beer!

There's a lager beer saloon across the way.

Lager bee-ee-eer!

Is there any lager beer to give away."

Although the goddess of music forgot me in the making, I found myself roaring out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jersey friend.

"You're singing some!" he remarked, sarcastically, when the chorus came to an end. "But, no wonder! This night would make a brass monkey sing. It's grand to be alive!"

Every battalion has its marching songs. One of the favourites with us was written by a certain rifleman in "C" Company, sung to the air of "Off to Philadelphia in the Morning." It runs:

"It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders

There is work to do both trying and exciting,

And the men who man the trenches, they are England's men and French's

Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting.

Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily,

For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous,

But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double,

We, the London Irish out on active service.

"With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there's no one could be bolder,

And we'll double out to France when we get warnin'

And we'll not stop long for trifles, we're the London Irish Rifles,

When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin'.

"An' the girls: oh it will grieve them when we take the train and leave them,

Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving,

But it's just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory,

Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving.

They'll see us with emotion all departing o'er the ocean,

And every maid a-weepin' for her lover;

'Good-bye' we'll hear them callin', while so many tears are fallin'

That they'd almost swamp the boat that takes us over.

"With our rifles," etc.

Our colonel sang this song at a concert, thus showing the democratic nature of the New Army, where a colonel sings the songs written in the ranks of his own battalion.

At the ten minutes' halt which succeeded the first hour's march, my Jersey friend spoke to me again. "Aren't there stars!" he said, turning his face to the heavens and gripping his rifle tightly as if for support. His wide open eyes seemed to have grown in size, and were full of an expression I had never seen in them before. "I like the stars," he remarked, "they're so wonderful. And to think that men are killing each other now, this very minute!" He clanked the butt of his gun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword.

Hour after hour passed by; under the light of the moon the country looked beautiful; every pond showed a brilliant face to the heavens, light mists seemed to hover over every farmhouse and cottage; light winds swept through the telegraph wires; only the woods looked dark, and there the trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them.

On our way back a sharp shower, charged with a penetrating cold, fell. The waterproof ground-sheets were unrolled, and we tied them over our shoulders. When the rain passed, the water falling in drops from our equipment glittered so brightly that it put the polished swords and brilliant rifle butt-plates to shame.

We stole into the town at midnight, when nearly all the inhabitants were abed. With arms at the trail, we marched along, throwing off company after company, at the streets where they billeted. The battalion dwindled down slowly; my party came to a halt, and the order "Dismiss!" was given, and we went to our billets. The Jersey youth came with me to my doorstep.

"I can't help looking at the stars!" he said as he moved off. "There are a lot to-night. And to think—" He hesitated, with the words trembling on his tongue, realising that he was going to repeat himself. "Anyway, there's some stars," he said in a low voice. "Good night!"

There is a peculiar glamour about all night work. The importance of night manœuvring was emphasised in the South African War, and we had ample opportunities of becoming accustomed to the darkness. On one occasion at about nine o'clock we swung out from the town with our regimental pipe-band playing to pursue some night operations. So far the men did not know what task had been assigned to them.

"We've got to do to-night's work as quiet as a growing mushroom," someone whispered to me, as we took our way off the road and lined up in the field that, stretching out in front and flanks, lost itself in formless mistiness under the loom of the encircling hedgerows. Here and there in the distance trees stand up gaunt and bare, holding out their leafless branches as if in supplication to the grey sky; a slight whisper of wind moaned along the ground and died away in the darkness.

Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave instructions. "The enemy is advancing to attack us in great force," he explained, "and our scouts have located him some six miles away from here. We have now found that it is inadvisable to march on any farther, as our reinforcements are not very strong and have been delayed to rear. Therefore we have decided to take up our present position as a suitable ground for operations and entrenching ourselves in—ready to give battle. Everything now must be done very quickly. Our lives will, perhaps, depend at some early date on the quickness with which we can hide ourselves from the foe. So; dig your trench as quickly as possible, as quickly, in fact, as if your life depended on it. Work must be done in absolute silence; no smoking is allowed, no lighting of matches, no talk.

"A word about orders. Commands are not to be shouted, but will be passed along from man to man, and none must speak above his breath. The passing of messages along in this manner is very difficult; words get lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit. But I hope you'll make a success of the job. Now we'll see how quickly we can get hidden!"

A "screen" of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) took up its place in line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to rear of the "screen" the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placing soldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment. In front lay a clear field of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack.

We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.

In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.

The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his wrong from the eyes of man.

The night wore on. Now and again a clock in the town struck out the time with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness. On both sides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knotted rope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with their labours. Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sank to tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart. The clay was thrown out to front and rear, and scattered evenly, so that the natural contour of the ground might show no signs of man's interference. And even as we worked the section commanders stole up and down behind us, urging the men to make as little sound as possible—our safety depended on our silence. But pick and shovel, like the rifle, will sing at their toil, and insistent and continuous, as if in threat, they rasped out the almost incoherent song of labour.

A man beside me suddenly laid down his shovel and battled with a cough that strove to break free and riot in the darkness. I could see his face go purple, his eyes stare out as if endeavouring to burst from their sockets. Presently he was victor, and as he bent to his shovel again I heard him whisper huskily, "'Twas a stiff go, that; it almost floored me."

Thrown from tongue to tongue as a ball is thrown in play, a message from the captain on the flank hurried along the living line. "Close in on the left," was the order, and we hastened to obey. Trenching tools were unhafted and returned to their carriers, equipments were donned again, belts tightened, and shoulder-straps buttoned. Singly, in pairs, and in files we hurried back to the point of assembly, to find a very angry captain awaiting us.

"I am very disappointed with to-night's work," he said. "I sent five messages out; two of them died on the way; a third reached its destination, but in such a muddled condition that it was impossible to recognise it as the one sent off. The order to cease work was the only one that seemed to hurry along. Out at the front, where all orders are passed along the trenches in this manner, it is of the utmost importance that every word is repeated distinctly, and that no order miscarries. Even out there, it is found very difficult to send messages along."

The captain paused for a moment; then told a story. "It is said that an officer at the front gave out the following message to the men in the trenches: 'In the wood on the right a party of German cavalry,' and when the message travelled half a mile it had changed to: 'German Navy defeated in the North Sea.' We don't know how much truth there is in the story, but I hope we will not make a mistake like that out there."

Lagging men were still stealing in as we took up our places in columns of fours. A clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the bird in the hedgerow was still singing as we marched out to the roadway, and followed our merry pipers home to town.

CHAPTER VII

Divisional Exercise and Mimic Warfare

Divisional exercise is a great game of make-believe. All sorts of liberties are taken, the clock is put forward or back at the command of the general, a great enemy army is created in the twinkling of an eye, day is turned into night and a regular game of topsy-turvydom indulged in. On the occasion of which I write the whole division was out. The time was nine o'clock in the forenoon, and an imaginary forced march was nearly completed, and an imaginary day was at an end. We were being hurried up as reinforcements to the main army, which was in touch with the enemy ahead and an engagement was developing. Our battalion came to a halt on the roadway, closing in to the left in order to give full play to the field telephone service in process of being laid.

Our officers went out in front to seek a position for a bivouac; the doctor accompanied them to examine the place chosen, see to the water supply, the drainage, and sanitation. In addition to this, our commanders had to find the battalion a resting-ground easy to defend and of merit as a tactical position.

At ten o'clock we lay down, battalion after battalion, just as we halted: equipment on, our packs unloosened but shoved up under our heads, and our rifles by our sides, muzzles towards the enemy. One word of command would bring twenty thousand men from their beds, ready in an instant, rifles loaded, bayonets at hips, quick to the route and ready for battle. We would rise, as we slept, in full marching order, and the space of a moment would find us hurrying, fully armed, into battle, with the sleep of night still heavy in our eyes.

For miles around the soldiers lay down, each in his place and every place occupied. Hardly a word was spoken; commands were whispered, and our officers crept round explaining the work ahead. Two miles in front the enemy was assembled in great strength on a river, and by dawn, if all went well, we would enter the firing line. At present we had to lie still; no man was to move about, and sentries with fixed bayonets were stationed at front, flank, and rear, ready to give the alarm at the first sign of danger.

Behind us were the kitchen, horse-lines, and latrines. The position of these varies as the wind changes, and it is imperative that unhealthy odours are not blown across the bivouac. The battalion lay in two parallel squares, with a gangway, blocked up with baggage and various necessaries, between. On these squares no refuse was to be thrown down; the ground had to be kept clean; papers, scraps of meat, and pieces of bread, if not eaten, had to be buried.

Even as we lay, and while the officers were explaining the work in hand, the artillery took up its stand on several wooded knolls that rose behind us. What a splendid sight, the artillery going into action! Heavy guns, an endless line of them, swept over the greensward and rattled into place. Six horses strained at each gun, which was accompanied by two ammunition wagons with six horses to each wagon. How many horses! How many guns! Out of nowhere in particular they came, and disappeared as if behind a curtain barely four hundred yards away. Thirty minutes afterwards I fancied as I looked in their direction that I could see black, ominous muzzles peering through the undergrowth. Probably I was mistaken. Anyhow, they were there, guarding us while we slept, our silent watchers!

About eleven o'clock an orderly stole in and spoke to the colonel, a hurried consultation in which all the officers took part was held, and the messenger departed. Again followed an interval of silence, only broken by the officers creeping round and giving us further information. The enemy was repulsed, they told us, and was now in retreat, but before moving off he had blown up all the bridges on the river. The artillery of our main army in front was shelling the fleeing foe, and our engineers had just set off to build three pontoon bridges, so that the now sleeping division could cross at dawn and follow the army in retreat.

Our dawn came at one o'clock in the afternoon; a whistle was blown somewhere near at hand, and the battalion sprang to life; every unit, with pack on back, cartridge pouches full, rifle at the order, was afoot and ready. Only two hours before had the engineers set out to build the bridges which the whole division, with its regiment after regiment, with its artillery, its guns, ammunition wagons and horses, its transport section, and vehicles of all descriptions, was now to cross. The landscape had changed utterly, the country was alive, and had found voice; the horse-lines were broken, and all the animals, from the colonel's charger to the humble pack horse, were on the move. The little squares, dotted brown, had taken on new shape, and were transformed into companies of moving men in khaki. We were out on the heels of the retreating foe.

Two hours' forced marching brought us to the river, a real one, with three pontoon bridges, newly built and held firm on flat-bottomed boats moored in mid-stream. We took our way across, and bent to the hill on the other side. Half-way up, in a narrow lane, a wagon got stuck in the front of our battalion, and we were forced to come to a halt for a moment. Looking back, I could see immediately behind three lines of men straining to the hill; farther back the same lines were crossing the bridges and, away in the far distance, pencilled brown on the ploughed fields, the three lines of khaki crawled along like long threads endlessly unwinding from some invisible ball. Now and again I could see the artillery coming into sight, only to disappear again over a wooded knoll or into an almost invisible hollow.

Thus the division, the apparently limitless lines of men, horses, and guns crawled on the track of the fleeing enemy. As we stood there, held in check by the wagon, and as I looked back at the thousands of soldiers in the rear, I felt indeed that I was a minute mite amongst the many. And then a second thought struck me. The whole mass of men around me was a small thing in relation to the numbers engaged in the great war. Even I, Rifleman Something or Another, No. So-and-so, bulked larger in the division as one of its units than the division did in the war as a unit of the Allied Forces.

Even more interesting than divisional exercises is the mimic warfare that is heralded by a notice in battalion orders such as the following: "The battalion will take part in brigade exercise to-day. Ten rounds of blank ammunition and haversack rations will be carried."

At eight o'clock in the morning whistles were blown at the bottom of the street in which my company is billeted, and the soldiers, rubbing the sleep from their eyes or munching the last mouthful of a hasty breakfast, came trooping out from the snug middle-class houses in which they are quartered. The morning was bitterly cold, and the falling rain splashed soberly on the pavement, every drop coming slowly to ground as if selecting a spot to rest on. The colour-sergeant, standing at the end of the street, whistle in hand, was in a nasty temper.

"Hurry up, you heavy-footed beggars," he yelled to the men. "The parade takes place to-day, not to-morrow! And you, what's wrong with your understandings?" he called to a man who came along wearing carpet slippers.

"And are you goin' to march in them drorin'-room abominations?" roared the sergeant. "Get your boots mended and grease out of it."

At roll-call three of the company were found to be absent; two were sick, and one who had been found guilty of using bad language to a N.C.O. was confined to the guard-room. Those who answered their names were served out with packets of blank ammunition, one packet per man, and each containing ten cartridges wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue string.

The captain read the following instructions: "The enemy is reported to be in strong force on X hill, and Battalions A and B are ordered to dislodge him from that position. A will form first line of attack, B will send up reserves and supports as needed." The rifles were examined by our young lieutenant, after which inspection the company joined the battalion, and presently a thousand men with rifles on shoulder, bayonets and haversacks on left hip, and ammunition in pouches, were marching through the rain along the muddy streets, out into the open country.

The day promised to be an interesting one from my point of view; I had never taken part in a mimic battle before, and the day's work was to be in many ways similar to operations on the real field of battle. "Only nobody gets killed, of course," my mate told me. He had taken part in this kind of work before, and was wise in his superior knowledge.

"One-half of the brigade, two thousand men, is our enemy," he explained; "and we're going to fight them. The battalion that's helping us is on in front, and it will soon be fighting. When it's hard pressed we'll go up to help, for we're the supports. It won't be long till we hear the firing."

An hour's brisk march was followed by a halt, when we were ordered to draw well into the left of the road to let the company guns go by. Dark-nosed and cold, they wheeled past, the horses sweating as they strained at the carriage shafts; the drivers, by deft handling, pulling the steeds clear of the ruts; out in front they swung, and the battalion closed up and resumed its march behind.

The rain ceased and a cold sun shot feeble rays over the sullen December landscape. Again a halt was called; the brigadier-general, followed by two officers and several orderlies, galloped up, and a hurried consultation with our colonel took place. In a moment the battalion moved ahead only to come to a dead stop again after ten minutes' slow marching, and find a company detailed off to guard the rear. The other companies, led by their officers, turned off the road and moved in sections across the newly furrowed and soggy fields. A level sweep of December England broken only by leafless hedgerows and wire fencing stretched out in front towards a wooded hillock, that stood up black against the sky-line two miles away. The enemy held this wood; we could hear his guns booming and now considered ourselves under shell fire. Each squad of sixteen men marched in the rear or on the flank of its neighbour; this method of progression minimises the dangers of bursting shrapnel, for a shell falling in the midst of one body of men and causing considerable damage will do no harm to the adjacent party.

Somewhere near us our gunners were answering the enemy's fire; but so well hidden were the guns that I could not locate them. We still crept slowly forward; section after section crawled across the black, ploughed fields, now rising up like giant caterpillars to the crest of a mound, and again dropping out of sight in the hollow land like corks on a comber. On our heels the ambulance corps followed with its stretchers, and in front the enemy was firing vigorously; over the belt of trees that lined the summit of the hillock little wisps of smoke could be seen rising and fading in the air.

Suddenly we came into line with our guns hidden in a deep narrow cart-track, their dark muzzles trained on the enemy, and the gunners, knee-deep in the mire of the lane, sweating at their work. "We're under covering fire now," our young lieutenant explained, as we trudged forward, lifting enormous masses of clay on our boots at every step. "One battalion is engaged already; hear the shots."

The rifles were barking on the left front; in a moment the reports from that quarter died away, and the right found voice. The men of the first line were in the trenches dug by us a fortnight earlier, and there they would remain, we knew, until their supports came to their aid. Already we passed several of them, who were detailed off on the anticipated casualty list in the morning. These wore white labels in their buttonholes, telling of the nature of their wounds. One label bore the words: "Shot in right shoulder; wound not dangerous." Another read: "Leg blown off," and a third ran: "Flesh wounds in arm and leg." These men would be taken into the care of the ambulance party when it arrived.

When within fifteen hundred yards of the enemy, the command for extended order advance was given, and the section spread out in one long line, fronting the knoll, with five pace intervals between the men. We were now under rifle-fire, and all further movements forward were made in short sharp rushes, punctuated by halts, during which we lay flat on the ground, our bodies deep in the soft earth, and the rain, which again commenced to fall, wetting us to the skin.

Six hundred yards from the enemy's front we tumbled into the trenches already in possession of Battalion B, and I found myself ankle-deep in mire, beside a unit of another regiment who was enjoying a cigarette and blowing rings of smoke into the air. Although no enemy was visible we got the order to fire, and I discharged three rounds in rapid succession.

"Don't fire, you fool!" said the man who was blowing the smoke rings. "Them blanks dirty 'orrible, and when you've clean't the clay from your clothes t'night you'll not want to muck about with your rifle. There's a price for copper, and I always sell my cartridge cases. The first time I came out I fired, but never since."

Several rushes forward followed, and the penultimate hundred yards were covered with fixed bayonets. In this manner we were prepared for any surprise. The enemy replied fitfully to our fire, and we could now see several khaki-clad figures with white hat-bands—the differential symbols—moving backwards and forwards amidst the trees. Presently they disappeared as we worked nearer to their lines. We were now rushing forward, lying down to fire, rising and running only to drop down again and discharge another round. Within fifty yards of the coppice the order to charge was given. A yell, almost fiendish in its intensity, issued from a thousand throats; anticipation of the real work which is to be done some day, lent spirit to our rush. In an instant we were in the wood, smashing the branches with our bayonets, thrusting at imaginary enemies, roaring at the top of our voices, and capping a novel fight with a triumphant final.

And our enemies? Having finished their day's work they were now fifteen minutes' march ahead of us on the way back to their rest and rations.