tly, in a cloudy sky; a light,
pale as water, slid over the shoulders of the men in front and rippled
down the creases of their trousers. The bayonets wobbled wearily on
the hips, those bayonets that once, burnished as we knew how to
burnish them, were the glory and delight of many a long and strict
general inspection at St. Albans; they were now coated with mud and
thick with rust, a disgrace to the battalion!

When the last stray bullet ceased whistling over our heads, and we
were well beyond the range of rifle fire, leave to smoke was granted.
To most of us it meant permission to smoke openly. Cigarettes had been
burned for quite a quarter of an hour before and we had raised them at
intervals to our lips, concealing the glow of their lighted ends under
our curved fingers. We drew the smoke in swiftly, treasured it
lovingly in our mouths for some time then exhaled it slowly and
grudgingly.

The sky cleared a little, but at times drifts of grey cloud swept (p. 212)
over the moon and blotted out the stars. On either side of the road
lone poplars stood up like silent sentinels, immovable, and the soft
warm breeze that touched us like a breath shook none of their branches.
Here and there lime-washed cottages, roofed with patches of straw
where the enemy's shells had dislodged the terra-cotta tiles, showed
lights in the windows. The natives had gone away and soldiers were
billeted in their places. Marching had made us hot; we perspired
freely and the sweat ran down our arms and legs; it trickled down our
temples and dropped from our eyebrows to our cheeks.

"Hang on to the step! Quick march! As you were! About turn!" some one
shouted imitating our sergeant-major's voice. We had marched in
comparative silence up to now, but the mimicked order was like a match
applied to a powder magazine. We had had eighteen days in the trenches,
we were worn down, very weary and very sick of it all; now we were out
and would be out for some days; we were glad, madly glad. All began to
make noises at the same time, to sing, to shout, to yell; in the night,
on the road with its lines of poplars we became madly delirious, we
broke free like a confused torrent from a broken dam. Everybody (p. 213)
had something to say or sing, senseless chatter and sentimental songs
ran riot; all uttered something for the mere pleasure of utterance; we
were out of the trenches and free for the time being from danger.

Stoner marched on my right, hangin