asins full of wine and what they were pleased to call beer.
Men were literally carried from the ranks, under the eyes of their
Officers, and borne in triumph into houses and inns. What with the heat
of the day and the heaviness of the equipment and the after-effects of
the noisome deck, the men could scarcely be blamed for availing
themselves of such hospitality, though to drink intoxicants on the march
is suicidal. Men "fell out," first by ones and twos, then by whole
half-dozens and dozens. The Subaltern himself was scarcely strong enough
to stagger up the long hills at the back of the town, let alone worrying
about his men. The Colonel was aghast, and very furious. He couldn't
understand it. (He was riding.)

The camp was prepared for the troops in a wonderfully complete
fashion--not the least thing seemed to have been forgotten. The men,
stripped of their boots, coats and equipments, were resting in the shade
of the tents. A caterer from Havre had come up to supply the Mess, and
the Subaltern was able to procure from him a bottle of rather heady
claret, which, as he was thirsty and exhausted, he consumed too rapidly,
and found himself hopelessly inebriate. Luckily there was nothing to do,
so he slept for many hours.

Waking up in the cool of the evening he heard the voices of another
Second-Lieutenant and a reservist Subaltern talking about some people he
knew near his home. It was good to forget about wars and soldiers, and
everything that filled so amply the present and future, and to lose
himself in pleasant talk of pleasant things at home.... The dinner
provided by the French caterer was very French, and altogether the last
sort of meal that a young gentleman suffering from anti-enteric
inoculation ought to have indulged in. Everything conspired to make him
worse, and what with the heat and the malady, he spent a very miserable
time.

After about two days' stay, the Battalion moved away from the rest
camp, and, setting out before dawn, marched back through those fatal
streets of Havre, this time deserted in the moonlight, to a sort of
shed, called by the French authorities a troop station. Here as usual
the train was waiting, and the men had but to be put in. The carriages
could not be called luxurious; to be frank, they were cattle-trucks. But
it takes more than that to damp the spirits of Mr. Thomas Atkins. Cries
imitating the lowing of cattle and the bleating of sheep broke out from
the trucks!

The trai