The Sergeant-Major began to call out the fatigue parties.  We felt relieved and thought that at last we would begin to move and get warm.

“Fall out Sergeant Waley’s party!”

A score of men splashed across the mud and lined up under Sergeant Waley.

“Fall out Sergeant Hemingway’s party!”

Forty or fifty men lined up.  It was Sergeant Hemingway whose sense of duty had prompted him to report the man whom he saw slinking into the ranks after we were all assembled on parade.

Then the proceedings were interrupted.  One of our officers, wearing top boots and a fur-lined overcoat with a big fur collar, emerged from the half darkness and the whirl of snowflakes and walked up to the Sergeant-Major, who stood to attention and saluted.  The officer returned the salute and the two talked together for several minutes.

A man in the front rank not far from me muttered in an agonized voice:  “Gorblimy, get a bloody move on—­I’m perishin’ wi’ cold.”  Another added:  “They don’t say nothin’ when ’e comes late on parade—­’e wouldn’t mind if we was kept ’ere all day—­oo, me feet, they’re absolutely froze.”

The Sergeant-Major swung round sharply and bawled out:  “Stop that talking there—­you’re stood to attention!” Then he went on talking to the officer.  At length the conversation came to an end.  Salutes were exchanged once more and the officer walked over towards a house on the far side of the road that ran alongside the camp.  As he opened the front door a warm glow shone out into the gloomy morning.  Then the door closed, like the gates that close on paradise, and there was nothing left to relieve the dismal dreariness of our dingy world.

“Sergeant Fuller’s party!”

Another set of men fell out.  I did not really belong to them, but I joined them because I noticed that one of my friends was of their number, while all the men of my own party were strangers to me.  I hoped that I would not be detected.

Sergeant Fuller counted his men.  There was one less than the required number and I felt encouraged, for there could now be no objection to my presence.  The Sergeant asked:  “Where’s Private Hartley?” and someone answered, “Gone sick, Sergeant.”  Suddenly he perceived me and asked: 

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come instead of Private Hartley, Sergeant,” I replied, hoping that the feeble lie would pass.

“Who gave you permission?”

“Er—­I—­Hartley said I could take his place.”

“Who’s Hartley?  Is he God Almighty?  Get back to your own party!”

I did not move.

“D’you hear—­get back at once!”

“It’s only for to-day, Sergeant—­I want to work with my mate.  Hartley’ll take my place again to-morrow.  Besides, you’ll be two men short without me.”

“Get back, will you, and do as you’re told.”

I did not move.

“D’you refuse to obey the order?  Get back at once, or I’ll have you put under arrest.”