earn how deep and lasting was the impression made
upon them by Lord Kitchener's first, and I believe his only, letter to
his soldiers.

The machinery for moving troops in England works without the slightest
friction. The men, transport, horses, commissariat, medical stores, and
supplies of a battalion are entrained in less than half an hour.
Everything is timed to the minute. Battalion after battalion and train
after train, we moved out of Aldershot at half-hour intervals. Each train
arrived at the port of embarkation on schedule time and pulled up on the
docks by the side of a troop transport, great slate-colored liners taken
out of the merchant service. Not a moment was lost. The last man was
aboard and the last wagon on the crane swinging up over the ship's side
as the next train came in.

Ship by ship we moved down the harbor in the twilight, the boys crowding
the rail on both sides, taking their farewell look at England--home. It
was the last farewell for many of them, but there was no martial music,
no waving of flags, no tearful good-byes. Our farewell was as prosaic as
our long period of training had been. We were each one a very small part
of a tremendous business organization which works without any of the
display considered so essential in the old days.

We left England without a cheer. There was not so much as a wave of the
hand from the wharf; for there was no one on the wharf to wave, with the
exception of a few dock laborers, and they had seen too many soldiers off
to the front to be sentimental about it. It was a tense moment for the
men, but trust Tommy to relieve a tense situation. As we steamed away
from the landing slip, we passed a barge, loaded to the water's edge with
coal. Tommy has a song pat to every occasion. He enjoys, above all
things, giving a ludicrous twist to a "weepy" ballad. When we were within
hailing distance of the coal barge, he began singing one of this variety,
"Keep the Home Fires Burning," to those smutty-faced barge hands. Every
one joined in heartily, forgetting all about the solemnity of the
leave-taking.

Tommy is a prosaic chap. This was never more apparent to me than upon
that pleasant evening in May when we said good-bye to England. The lights
of home were twinkling their farewells far in the distance. Every moment
brought us nearer to the great adventure. We were "off to the wars," to
take our places in the far-flung battle line. Here was Romance lavishly
offering g