ly
they did not really believe or mean half they said. They were thirsty,
hungry, and very, very tired.

The soldier at Malplaquet shook the powder from his wig, and grumbled as
only a soldier and a Britain can.

His descendant at Mons did just the same thing. And after he had got his
"grouse" off his chest, fought all the better for it.

Although an alarming rumour reached them that the enemy, crowded into
motor buses, had already reached St. Quentin, nothing disturbed their
rest during the night, and by dawn the column was swinging along the
road to La Fere. The men were always depressed and weary in the early
morning. Their spirits never began to rise until eight or nine o'clock.
Then songs would break out. "Who were you with last night?" "Hold your
hand out, naughty boy!" and the inevitable "Tipperary," were the
favourites. They would often whistle the "Marseillaise." A certain
"swing" entered into the marching; there was less changing step, less
shuffling. Even their weary faces brightened. Jokes became positively
prolific, and the wit of the barrack-room, considered as wit, is far
funnier than the humour of the Mess. Perhaps it is founded on a deeper
knowledge of life.

Towards midday, almost imperceptibly, the gist of the songs changed to
the sentimental, and before very long the heat and fatigue gradually
overcame the men, and songs ceased altogether. As a general rule, after
two o'clock the mental attitude of the troops might be described as
black, distinctly black.

The rumour ran down the column that La Fere was to be the termination of
that day's march, and as La Fere was only a matter of ten miles away, it
was felt that at last an "easy" day had arrived. The road led through
very pleasant places along a river valley, the opposite slope of which
was wooded. That morning, too, there was no suspicion of artillery fire.
It seemed that, for the moment at any rate, they had escaped the
inconvenience of battle. Somebody said that La Fere was fortified.
Behind its works they would doubtless stand, rest, and then perhaps
fight. (Even yet they had not learnt the futility of speculation.)

Those ten miles were long ones. It almost seemed to their tantalised
nerves that La Fere was not a town, but a mirage. And so it was, or at
least their thoughts of rest and water and food remained "in nebulis."

Outside the town was a road-crossing. One way led to the main street of
the town, and the other way to the south.