farther
and farther over the depression, and therein we could descry men lying
in huddled heaps too weak to rise to their feet.

It was a picture of misery and wretchedness such as it would be
impossible to parallel. I recalled the unhappy scenes I had witnessed
around the railway terminus at Berlin under similar conditions, but that
was paradise to the field at Sennelager Camp on the fateful night of
September 11. It appeared as if the Almighty Himself had turned upon us
at last, and was resolved to blot us from the face of the earth. We were
transformed into a condition bordering on frigidity from rain-soaked
clothes clinging to bodies reduced to a state of low vitality and empty
stomachs. Had we been in good health I doubt whether the storm and
exposure would have wreaked such havoc among us.

While my friend and I were standing on a knoll pondering upon the utter
helplessness and misery around us, singing and whistling were borne to
us upon the wind. We listened to catch fragments of a comic song between
the gusts. There was no mistaking those voices. We picked our way slowly
to beneath the trees whence the voices proceeded, glad to meet some
company which could be merry and bright, even if the mood had to be
assumed with a desperate effort.

Beneath the trees we found a small party of our indomitable compatriots.
They received us with cheery banter and joke and an emphatic assurance
that "it is all right in the summer time." They were quite as wretched
and as near exhaustion as anybody upon the field, but they were firmly
determined not to show it. A comic song had been started as a
distraction, the refrain being bawled for all it was worth as if in
defiance of the storm. This was what had struck our ears.

This panacea being pronounced effective a comprehensive programme was
rendered. Every popular song that occurred to the mind was turned on and
yelled with wild lustiness. Those who did not know the words either
whistled the air or improvised an impossible ditty. Whenever there was a
pause to recall some new song, the interval was occupied with "Rule,
Britannia!" This was a prime favourite, and repetition did not stale its
forceful rendition, especial stress being laid upon the words, "Britons
never, never, never shall be slaves!" to which was roared the eternal
enquiry, "Are we down-hearted?" The welkin-smashing negative, crashing
through the night, and not entirely free from embroidery, offered a
conclusive