d in volume until
the balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning
and shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, anxious
eyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had
approached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.

Both armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no
shot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.

It was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall.
It seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it
reaching the ground in No Man's Land.

As it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing
violence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees.
So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the
parachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.

Next day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight
miles back of the line.

We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.

The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a
smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else
during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.

The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the
never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are
equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.

CHAPTER IX

DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME

CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH THE GUNS

On Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish,
and we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a
mystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders
are given to get out.

The difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier
is that in the former case you choose your time of departure or
arrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most
unearthly hour is selected for you.

We arrived at Corbie at 2 A.M. Not that we knew it was Corbie at the
time, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little
the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is pronounced
in the way it is spelled, and that relieves one of a sense of
uneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce the
names of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior
knowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find
a ne