They went far, from that time to the end, and fought with a simple,
terrible courage.

They had none of the discipline imposed upon our men by Regular
traditions. They were gipsy fellows, with none but the gipsy law in
their hearts, intolerant of restraint, with no respect for rank or
caste unless it carried strength with it, difficult to handle behind the
lines, quick-tempered, foul-mouthed, primitive men, but lovable, human,
generous souls when their bayonets were not red with blood. Their
discipline in battle was the best. They wanted to get to a place ahead.
They would fight the devils of hell to get there.

The New-Zealanders followed them, with rosy cheeks like English boys
of Kent, and more gentle manners than the other "Anzacs," and the same
courage. They went far, too, and set the pace awhile in the last lap.
But that, in the summer of '16, was far away.

In those last days of June, before the big battles began, the
countryside of the Somme valley was filled with splendor. The mustard
seed had spread a yellow carpet in many meadows so that they were Fields
of the Cloth of Gold, and clumps of red clover grew like flowers
of blood. The hedges about the villages of Picardy were white with
elderflower and drenched with scent. It was haymaking time and French
women and children were tossing the hay on wooden pitchforks during hot
days which came between heavy rains. Our men were marching through that
beauty, and were conscious of it, I think, and glad of life.

IV

Boulogne was a port through which all our youth passed between
England and the long, straight road which led to No Man's Land. The
seven-day-leave men were coming back by every tide, and all other leave
was canceled.

New "drafts" were pouring through the port by tens of thousands--all
manner of men of all our breed marching in long columns from the
quayside, where they had orders yelled at them through megaphones by
A.P.M.'s, R.T.O.'s, A.M.L.O.'s, and other blue tabbed officers who dealt
with them as cattle for the slaughterhouses. I watched them landing from
the transports which came in so densely crowded with the human freight
that the men were wedged together on the decks like herrings in barrels.
They crossed from one boat to another to reach the gangways, and one by
one, interminably as it seemed, with rifle gripped and pack hunched,
and steel hat clattering like a tinker's kettle, came down the inclined
plank and lurched ashore. The