ent
terms--especially with Sergt. T. Allez, one of the finest and most
courageous men in the Ten Hundred. Lieut. F. Arnold was in
command--another good fellow. This Platoon emerged with a very small
percentage of casualties.

Equancourt was disliked from the moment the Ten Hundred made the
disagreeable discovery that fatigues were rampant. Men began
to vanish in all directions. Mahy, doing the glide from one
Quarter-Master-Sergeant (the Q.M.S. is an individual who allots ten of
you to a one lb. loaf, and who endeavours to convince you that your
clothing issue must last for ever, and that you are far better rationed
than you deserve. P.S.--We are officially informed that there are no
Q.M.S.'s among the angels!)--to resume, Mahy did the gaby from one
exasperated Q.M.S. right into the yawning arms of another. An enormous
box was instantaneously bundled on to his shoulders, nearly bending him
double.

"You'd better be careful with that little lot," the N.C.O. advised.

"Why?" with a gasp.

"Becos (drily) it's full of bombs." The hair crinkled upwards into the
lad's steel helmet and he carried that box to its destination with all
the lavish care and tenderness of a mother for her babe. Placing it
gingerly down and unable to overcome the strong trait of inquisitiveness
latent in all soldiers, he forced up the lid and peeped upon--two heavy
sets of large transport waggon implements!

The march from Equancourt up to the "jumping off" point of the advance
was neither so long nor arduous as on the two previous nights. As mile
after mile was reeled off the incessant thunder of guns ten or twelve
miles northward became more and more distinct, but on the sector of the
line towards which the miles of marching columns were heading not a
sound disturbed the night from hour to hour. The rumble of that distant
artillery mingled with the jingle of unseen harness and the pad, pad, of
countless feet. Hazy starlight faintly lit up row upon row of men,
glinted dimly on brighter portions of the equipment and distinctly
silhouetted each breath on the damp night air. A tense, silent march:
nerves highly strung. A march to live long in memory.

Within five minutes of leaving the road for the downs there enveloped
you that indefinable sense that a fighting area has been entered.
Nothing could be seen, heard or felt, yet the proximity of trenches and
wire was frequently "scented," like the first approaches of a sea after
a long march inland