you are not out for the night—­must always end in time for the men to get back to their dinners at five o’clock.  Under this inexorable law it follows that, by the time the General has got into touch with the enemy and brought his firing line, supports, and local reserves into action, it is time to go home.  So about three o’clock the bugles sound, and the combatants, hot and grimy, fall back into close order at the point of deployment, where they are presently joined by the Divisional Reserve, blue-faced and watery-eyed with cold.  This done, principals and understudies, casting envious glances at one another, form one long column of route and set out for home, in charge of the subalterns.  The senior officers trot off to the “pow-wow,” there, with the utmost humility and deference, to extol their own tactical dispositions, belittle the achievements of the enemy, and impugn the veracity of one another.

Thus the day’s work ends.  Our divisional column, with its trim, sturdy, infantry battalions, its jingling cavalry and artillery, its real live staff, and its imposing transport train, sets us thinking, by sheer force of contrast, of that dim and distant time seven months ago, when we wrestled perspiringly all through long and hot September days, on a dusty barrack square, with squad upon squad of dazed and refractory barbarians, who only ceased shuffling their feet in order to expectorate.  And these are the self-same men!  Never was there a more complete vindication of the policy of pegging away.

II

So much for the effect of its training upon the regiment as a whole.  But when you come to individuals, certain of whom we have encountered and studied in this rambling narrative, you find it impossible to generalise.  Your one unshakable conclusion is that it takes all sorts to make a type.

There are happy, careless souls like McLeary and Hogg.  There are conscientious but slow-moving worthies like Mucklewame and Budge.  There are drunken wasters like—­well, we need name no names.  We have got rid of most of these, thank heaven!  There are simple-minded enthusiasts of the breed of Wee Pe’er, for whom the sheer joy of “sojering” still invests dull routine and hard work with a glamour of their own.  There are the old hands, versed in every labour-saving (and duty-shirking) device.  There are the feckless and muddle-headed, making heavy weather of the simplest tasks.  There is another class, which divides its time between rising to the position of sergeant and being reduced to the ranks, for causes which need not be specified.  There is yet another, which knows its drill-book backwards, and can grasp the details of a tactical scheme as quickly as a seasoned officer, but remains in the ruck because it has not sufficient force of character to handle so much as a sentry-group.  There are men, again, with initiative but no endurance, and others with endurance but no initiative.  Lastly, there are men, and a great many of them, who appear to be quite incapable of coherent thought, yet can handle machinery or any mechanical device to a marvel.  Yes, we are a motley organisation.