Lieutenant Cockerell’s haversack contained a packet of meat-lozenges and about half a pound of chocolate.  These were presented to the Sergeant.

“Hand these round as far as they will go, Sergeant,” said Cockerell.  “They’ll make a mouthful a man, anyhow.  Tell the platoon to lie down for ten minutes; then we’ll push off.  It’s only fifteen miles.  We ought to make it by breakfast-time ...”

Slowly, mechanically, all through the winter night the victors hobbled along.  Cockerell led the way, carrying the rifle of a man with a wounded arm.  Occasionally he checked his bearings with map and electric torch.  Sergeant M’Nab, who, under a hirsute and attenuated exterior, concealed a constitution of ferro-concrete and the heart of a lion, brought up the rear, uttering fallacious assurances to the faint-hearted as to the shortness of the distance now to be covered, and carrying two rifles.

The customary halts were observed.  At ten minutes to four the men flung themselves down for the third time.  They had covered about seven miles, and were still eight or nine from St. Gregoire.  The everlasting constellation of Verey lights still rose and fell upon the eastern horizon behind them, but the guns were silent.

“There might be a Heavy Battery dug in somewhere about here,” mused Cockerell.  “I wonder if we could touch them for a few tins of bully.  Hallo, what’s that?”

A distant rumble came from the north, and out of the darkness loomed a British motor-lorry, lurching and swaying along the rough cobbles of the pave.  Some of Cockerell’s men were lying dead asleep in the middle of the road, right at the junction.  The lorry was going twenty miles an hour.

“Get into the side of the road, you men!” shouted Cockerell, “or they’ll run over you.  You know what these M.T. drivers are!”

With indignant haste, and at the last possible moment, the kilted figures scattered to either side of the narrow causeway.  The usual stereotyped and vitriolic remonstrances were hurled after the great hooded vehicle as it lurched past.

And then a most unusual thing happened.  The lorry slowed down, and finally stopped, a hundred yards away.  An officer descended, and began to walk back.  Cockerell rose to his weary feet and walked to meet him.

The officer wore a major’s crown upon the shoulder-straps of his sheepskin-lined “British Warm” and the badge of the Army Service Corps upon his cap.  Cockerell, indignant at the manner in which his platoon had been hustled off the road, saluted stiffly, and muttered:  “Good-morning, sir!”

“Good-morning!” said the Major.  He was a stout man of nearly fifty, with twinkling blue eyes and a short-clipped mustache.  Cockerell judged him to be one of the few remnants of the original British Army.

“I stopped,” explained the older man, “to apologise for the scandalous way that fellow drove over you.  It was perfectly damnable; but you know what these converted taxi-drivers are!  This swine forgot for the moment that he had an officer on board, and hogged it as usual.  He goes under arrest as soon as we get back to billets.”