of chocolates. The sight of them, on
Active Service, was a farce. They were not the usual sort of chocolates
that one saw--"plain," useful, nourishing chocolates. They were frankly
fancy chocolates, creams with sugared tops, filled with nuts, marzipan,
or jellies, inseparable from a drawing-room, and therefore ten times
more acceptable and delightful.

He got not a single letter from home, not from any one. Not that he
minded much, at that time. Home, parents--any softness of any
description--would have seemed unreal.

The happiness of the following day was very much impaired by rain, which
fell intermittently throughout the whole day. After the first shower he
got up and began to look about him for some sort of protection. Rather
than have nothing, he picked up a waterproof sheet that had belonged to
a wounded man. It was covered with blood, but the next shower soon
washed all trace of it off, and it kept him dry.

The next night, just after rations had been distributed, an order came
to march off. Haste, it seemed, was imperative. And so, leaving behind
as few things as possible, he paraded his men, without knowing where
they were to go, and saw them set off behind the front Platoon. Just as
he was about to set off himself, he slipped down the side of one of the
holes, and as he fled, his sword slid from its scabbard, and vanished.
He knew the chances of returning to that particular spot were five to
one against, and he was determined to "hang on" to his sword, come what
might, so he let his Platoon go on, while he groped about in the
darkness for it. It seemed incredible that a sword could hide itself so
completely. He kicked about in the pitch-dark for what seemed to be
endless minutes before his foot knocked against it. He "pushed it home"
hurriedly, and started off in pursuit of the men.

But the darkness had swallowed them up. He followed the road right into
Poussey, but still there was no sign of them. No troops, he learned, had
passed through since the previous morning. Evidently they had not gone
that way. The only alternative was the "awkward" road over the canal
bridge which led into the next village on the line--Souvir.

CHAPTER XXVIII

IN RESERVE AT SOUVIR

He hurried on, for morning would break in half-an-hour, and he did not
wish to be caught in that unwholesome hundred yards the other side of
the canal bridge. He overtook his men sooner than he expected, and the
open space was passed wit