would not allow men to march into battle with colours
flying and bands playing: the old brave way was impossible in the face
of machine guns. The pomp and pageantry of battle had departed and there
was nothing left but for the attacking party to crawl in a most
inelegant fashion upon the ground.

"Down!" cried the sergeant-instructor to poor Tim, who started his
lessons in field training with some vague idea about marching on the foe
with "head and eyes erect" and with "pace unfaltering and slow." "When
you get out to Flanders you will have to get right down on your belly if
you want to _live_ a little longer than ten minutes. Extend to
five-six-ten paces and get as close to old mother earth as possible and
hide your bloomin' selves!"

"Hide yourselves!" thought Tim. "Not thus is it written in my father's
book of drill! It plainly said therein that the duty of a soldier was to
learn how to die, not to hide from death."

Crushed and dejected he returned that morning to breakfast to wolf a
chunk of bread and butter, washed down by dishwater, misnamed tea.

After breakfast he retired to a corner and thought it all out. The words
of the Sergeant came back to him: "_Hide yourself if yer want to live!_"

These words stuck in his memory, as words which bring a new light on an
outlook will. That was the start of his demoralisation. He was the first
of all his line who had been told to hide himself from death. No more
the worsted bravery, the pipeclay, lace and scarlet. No more the old
military swagger. No more the drummer boy with a waist like a French
dancing girl, wrists like Bombardier Wells, and shoulders like a wooden
man out of a Noah's Ark. No more the throbbing and growling of the
drums; the staccato detonations and the insolent crescendoes of the
drums. No more the wild music that the bands played to the men who
fought at Minden, Malplaquet and Wynendael. No more the brushing of a
comrade's arm one's own, inspiring boldness; no more a thousand red
coats marching on the enemy with slow and unfaltering pace. Tim could
see the men of his dreams now, in his mind's eye, marching with heads
and eyes erect ... see, too, the smoke of continuous volleys bursting
out along the steady lines as they fired by sections and companies on
their foes. Well, it was all a thing of the past now. It was plainly his
duty not to be reckless. "Do not be dashing, do not expose yourself, do
not cheer and make a noise," they said; "creep alo