aps, a
pigeon would come fluttering down from the ledges and cornices of the
Gothic facade; sometimes a nondescript dog would raise a lazy head to
snap at the flies; occasionally the streets would send back a nasal echo
as a group of American tourists, with their Baedekers and maps, came
hurrying along to "do" the town before the next train left for
Paris--beyond that ... nothing.

Now, in the early morning, the Base seems almost to have relapsed into
its slumber of yore. As yet, the work of the day has not begun, and the
whole town seems to stir sleepily as the screeching brakes bring your
train to a standstill. As you stumble out of the carriage, the only
living person in the place appears to be a sentry, who tramps up and
down in the distance, on guard over a few empty trucks and a huge pile
of bundles of straw.

It is a little disappointing, this arrival at the Base, for there is not
even a proper station in sight; you have been brought, like so many
sheep or cows, into the dismal goods station, and you look in vain for
the people who should be there to welcome you, to throw flowers, and to
cheer as you arrive at the first halt of your great Odyssey. However,
you shake yourself, you bundle your valise out of the carriage on to the
railway line, and, with your late carriage companions, you go across to
the sentry and his bundles of straw.

"Can you tell us where the Railway Transport Officer is to be found?"
you ask. "We've got orders to report to him as soon as we can."

"Yes, sir, they's always got those orders, but you won't find 'im not
before 'alf-past nine. 'Is office is over there in them buildings." And
a subaltern in the office gives you the same information--it is now five
o'clock, and the R.T.O. who has your movement orders will not be here
for four and a half hours. "Go and have a look round the town," suggests
the subaltern.

The idea of "looking round a town" at five in the morning! You slouch
over the bridge, and wander up and down the empty streets until an hotel
shows up before you. You are very tired and very dirty and very
unshaven. Instinctively you halt and feel your chins. "Dunno when we'll
get another bath," suggests one of the party, and he goes to ring the
bell. For ten minutes you ring the bell, and then the door is opened by
a half-clothed porter who is also very tired and very dirty and very
unshaven. He glares at you, and then signs to you to enter, after which
he runs away and leav