Fen village during a hiring fair; the
divisional horse-master, the C.R.E., and the D.A.Q.M.G. were among the
officers trying to sort out the muddle; and in front of the Mairie,
like a policeman on point duty, stood a perspiring staff captain.
"That'll mean the Military Cross at least," grinned Beadle. "Life's
very hard sometimes, isn't it?"

3 P.M.: The batteries were now in position on Caillouel ridge, and one
brigade of the Divisional Infantry had arrived and commenced to dig. "I
must have turned up half France since we started this retreat," growled
one swarthy private, resting on his pick. "And I was a navvy before the
war, and joined up for a change."

I stood by the composite battery and saw four of the waggons come up
with ammunition. They had had to climb a long punishing slope over
meadow-lands and orchards, and the last five hundred yards was across
ploughed fields. The horses were blowing hard. "They've kept their
condition well, considering the work they have had to do this last four
days," remarked Dumble. "I hope the Supply Column won't fail us,
though. The horses want as much corn as they can get now."

"Well, the A.S.C. have had plenty of practice getting up supplies this
last three years. They ought to be able to keep touch with us, however
irregular our movements--and M'Klown is a pretty smart fellow," I
answered.

"Rather amusing just now to recall that 'Truth' a short while ago was
saying there were too many horses in the Field Artillery, isn't it?"
went on Dumble. "They said one team a battery to pull the guns into
position from off the road would be enough, and that motor-traction
could do the rest. Never mind; the old horse has earned his keep these
last few days, hasn't he?"

"Look here," he added, "come along with me and I'll show you a find.
You're thirsty, aren't you?"

"I shall say a grand Amen if you offer me a drink," said I, taking a
deep breath.

"Well, come along--there's a cellar full of cider in this house here.
I've left a man in charge to see there's no hanky-panky. I'm giving my
men some, but under surveillance. No one allowed more than a pint."

It was the coolest, best-tasting cider I have ever drunk, not too
sweet, not too tart. A gunner tipped up the barrel and poured it into a
dilapidated-looking enamelled mug. How good it was! I quaffed half a
pint at a gulp, and said "Rather!" when asked if I would have more.

"Glad you liked it," said Dumble. "I must confess that