Thus the division, the apparently limitless lines of men, horses, and guns crawled on the track of the fleeing enemy.  As we stood there, held in check by the wagon, and as I looked back at the thousands of soldiers in the rear, I felt indeed that I was a minute mite amongst the many.  And then a second thought struck me.  The whole mass of men around me was a small thing in relation to the numbers engaged in the great war.  Even I, Rifleman Something or Another, No.  So-and-so, bulked larger in the division as one of its units than the division did in the war as a unit of the Allied Forces.

Even more interesting than divisional exercises is the mimic warfare that is heralded by a notice in battalion orders such as the following:  “The battalion will take part in brigade exercise to-day.  Ten rounds of blank ammunition and haversack rations will be carried.”

At eight o’clock in the morning whistles were blown at the bottom of the street in which my company is billeted, and the soldiers, rubbing the sleep from their eyes or munching the last mouthful of a hasty breakfast, came trooping out from the snug middle-class houses in which they are quartered.  The morning was bitterly cold, and the falling rain splashed soberly on the pavement, every drop coming slowly to ground as if selecting a spot to rest on.  The colour-sergeant, standing at the end of the street, whistle in hand, was in a nasty temper.

“Hurry up, you heavy-footed beggars,” he yelled to the men.  “The parade takes place to-day, not to-morrow!  And you, what’s wrong with your understandings?” he called to a man who came along wearing carpet slippers.

“My boots are bad, colour,” is the answer.  “I cannot march in them.”

“And are you goin’ to march in them drorin’-room abominations?” roared the sergeant.  “Get your boots mended and grease out of it.”

At roll-call three of the company were found to be absent; two were sick, and one who had been found guilty of using bad language to a N.C.O. was confined to the guard-room.  Those who answered their names were served out with packets of blank ammunition, one packet per man, and each containing ten cartridges wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue string.

The captain read the following instructions:  “The enemy is reported to be in strong force on X hill, and Battalions A and B are ordered to dislodge him from that position.  A will form first line of attack, B will send up reserves and supports as needed.”  The rifles were examined by our young lieutenant, after which inspection the company joined the battalion, and presently a thousand men with rifles on shoulder, bayonets and haversacks on left hip, and ammunition in pouches, were marching through the rain along the muddy streets, out into the open country.

The day promised to be an interesting one from my point of view; I had never taken part in a mimic battle before, and the day’s work was to be in many ways similar to operations on the real field of battle.  “Only nobody gets killed, of course,” my mate told me.  He had taken part in this kind of work before, and was wise in his superior knowledge.