me upon the dark bulk of old
Hendecourt.

The Undertaking had begun.

They halted a few hours later in the semi-darkness of a siding where a
great conglomeration of every corps stood leaning on rifles, awaiting
instructions to board one of the grinding, jarring lines of trains that,
shunting to and fro, emitted ghostly columns of white smoke high into
the darkened heavens.

The Normans boarded their train, tumbling clumsily one into another over
the dirty, evil-smelling floors of the cattle-trucks. Striking of
matches and smoking were forbidden ... a babel of confusion and curses
ensued while they sorted themselves out. It was impossible to wreak
vengeance on the man who inadvertently placed his boot in your eye ...
to turn abruptly in his direction would bring some other lad's rifle in
your teeth. Sit tight and hold tight!

The Duo, with the scouts from other Battalions, attached Brigade
Headquarters, succeeded in forcing their way into a genuine railway
carriage--trust them! Almost immediately they were up to mischief.
Having scrounged a tin of pork and beans they wanted to cook it. And
cook it they did, despite orders re lights. A foot of rag was wrapped
around a candle stump, placed in a tin (this paraphernalia they carried
everywhere) and lit. For twenty minutes the "maconichie" boiled, and
they then blew out the smouldering grease-saturated rag. The carriage
was fitted with FASTENED windows and a icor of smouldering candle-rag
with no outlet! The occupants were literally gassed. Coughing,
spluttering, they almost choked.

"Phew," gasped Clarke, waving at the fumes, "it's aw-aw-awful." The
other partner of the Duo could stand it no longer. Grasping his rifle he
pushed it through the window. Crash! Then he laughed.

"Anybody want, want any beans?" he chuckled.

"Eat it, phew, yer bloomin' self."

"Ugh, not now after that--er--aroma." He threw the tin through the
broken pane and added piously, "hope it hits someone."

PERONNE! To march after detraining during the morning along its deserted
streets, to gaze on the devastation of its large buildings, sent the
mind wandering over the past. Peronne: this was the town from which
Fritz had retreated "according to plan"; this was the goal towards which
the British had gazed undismayed through the black months of slow
progress, infinite hardship, and fast-flowing blood. But to-day the
khaki tread rang firm on its roads. They who had gone before had made
easy the