To-day, for instance, we have tramped a certain number of miles; we have worked for a certain number of hours; and we have got wet through for the hundredth time.  We are now tramping home to a dinner which will probably not be ready, because, as yesterday, it has been cooked in the open air under weeping skies.  While waiting for it, we shall clean the same old rifle.  When night falls, we shall sleep uneasily upon a comfortless floor, in an atmosphere of stale food and damp humanity.  In the morning we shall rise up reluctantly, and go forth, probably in heavy rain, to our labour until the evening—­the same labour and the same evening.  We admit that it can’t be helped:  the officers and the authorities do their best for us under discouraging circumstances:  but there it is.  Out at the front, we hear, men actually get as much as three days off at a time—­three days of hot baths and abundant food and dry beds.  To us, in our present frame of mind, that seems worth any number of bullets and frost-bites.

And—­bitterest thought of all—­New Year’s Day, with all its convivial associations, is only a few weeks away.  When it comes, the folk at home will celebrate it, doubtless with many a kindly toast to the lads “oot there,” and the lads “doon there.”  But what will that profit us?  In this barbarous country we understand that they take no notice of the sacred festival at all.  There will probably be a route-march, to keep us out of the public-houses.

Et patiti, et patita.  Are we fed up?  YES!

As we swing down the village street, slightly cheered by a faint aroma of Irish stew—­the cooks have got the fires alight after all—­the adjutant rides up, and reins in his horse beside our company commander.

Battalion orders of some kind!  Probably a full-dress parade, to trace a missing bayonet!

Presently he rides away; and Captain Blaikie, instead of halting and dismissing us in the street as usual, leads us down an alley into the backyard which serves as our apology for a parade-ground.  We form close column of platoons, stand at ease, and wait resignedly.

Then Captain Blaikie’s voice falls upon our ears.

“A Company, I have an announcement to make to you.  His Majesty the King—­”

So that is it.  Another Royal Review!  Well, it will be a break in the general monotony.

“—­who has noted your hard work, good discipline, and steady progress with the keenest satisfaction and pride—­”

We are not utterly forgotten, then.

“—­has commanded that every man in the battalion is to have seven days’ full leave of absence.”

“A-a-ah!” We strain our tingling ears.

“We are to go by companies, a week at a time.  ‘C’ will go first.”

“C” indeed!  Who are “C,” to—?

“A Company’s leave—­our leave—­will begin on the twenty-eighth of December, and extend to the third of January.”

The staccato words sink slowly in, and then thoughts come tumbling.