“And that’s that!” observes Captain Blaikie cheerfully, emerging from Potsdam View.  “The Hun is a harmless little creature, but noisy when roused.  Now, what about getting home?  It will be dark in half an hour or so.  Platoon commanders, warn your men!”

It should be noted that upon this occasion we are not doing our full spell of duty—­that is, six days.  We have merely come in for a spell of instruction, of twenty-four hours’ duration, under the chaperonage of our elder and more seasoned brethren.

Bobby Little, having given the necessary orders to his sergeant, proceeded to Trafalgar Square, there to await the mustering of his platoon.

But the first arrival took the form of a slow-moving procession—­a corporal, followed by two men carrying a stretcher.  On the stretcher lay something covered with a ground-sheet.  At one end projected a pair of regulation boots, very still and rigid.

Bobby caught his breath.  He was just nineteen, and this was his first encounter with sudden death.

“Who is it?” he asked unsteadily.

The corporal saluted.

“Private M’Leary, sirr.  That last shot from the trench-mortar got him.  It came in kin’ o’ sideways.  He was sittin’ at the end of his dug-oot, gettin’ his tea.  Stretcher party, advance!”

The procession moved off again, and disappeared round the curve of
Shaftesbury Avenue.  The off-day was over.

XVI

“DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSS-ROADS TO-NIGHT”

Last week we abandoned the rural billets in which we had been remodelling some of our methods (on the experiences gained by our first visit to the trenches), and paraded at full strength for a march which we knew would bring us right into the heart of things.  No more trial trips; no more chaperoning!  This time, we decided, we were “for it.”

During our three weeks of active service we have learned two things—­the art of shaking down quickly into our habitation of the moment, as already noted; and the art of reducing our personal effects to a portable minimum.

To the private soldier the latter problem presents no difficulties.  Everything is arranged for him.  His outfit is provided by the Government, and he carries it himself.  It consists of a rifle, bayonet, and a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition.  On one side of him hangs his water-bottle, containing a quart of water, on the other, a haversack, occupied by his “iron ration”—­an emergency meal of the tinned variety, which must never on any account be opened except by order of the C.O.—­and such private effects as his smoking outfit and an entirely mythical item of refreshment officially known as “the unexpended portion of the day’s ration.”  On his back he carries a “pack,” containing his greatcoat, waterproof sheet, and such changes of raiment as a paternal Government allows him.  He also has to find room therein for a towel, housewife, and a modest allowance of cutlery. (He frequently wears the spoon in his stocking, as a skean-dhu.) Round his neck he wears his identity disc.  In his breast-pocket he carries a respirator, to be donned in the event of his encountering the twin misfortunes of an east wind and a gaseous Hun.  He also carries a bottle of liquid for damping the respirator.  In the flap of his jacket is sewn a field dressing.