Contemptible | Page 5

while the remainder of the British Army was being concentrated,
until Friday morning. On Thursday night the Battalion Orders made it
clear that a start was to be made. Parade was to be earlier than usual,
and nothing was to be left behind. Every one was very sorry to be
leaving their French friends, and there were great doings that night.
Champagne was produced, and a horrible sort of liquor called "alcahol"
was introduced into the coffee. Such was the generosity of the miller's
people that it was only with the greatest difficulty that the Captain
induced Madame to accept any payment for her kindness. And so in the
chill of that Friday morning the Battalion marched away, not without
many handshakings and blessings from the simple villagers. The
Subaltern often wonders what became of Mesdames, and that excitable
son Raoul, and charming Thérèse, whom the Subalterns had all insisted
on kissing before they left. A very different sort of folk occupy that
village now. He only hopes that his friends escaped them.
The Battalion joined its Brigade, and the Brigade its Division, and
before the sun was very high in the sky they were swinging along the
"route nationale," due northwards. The day was very hot, and the
Battalion was hurried, with as short halts as possible, towards
Landrécies. As, however, this march was easily surpassed in
"frightfulness" by many others, it will be enough to say that Landrécies
was reached in the afternoon.
Having seen his men as comfortable as possible in the schools where
they were billeted for the night, the Subaltern threw off his equipment,
and having bought as much chocolate as he and a friend could lay their
hands on, retired to his room and lay down.
At about seven o'clock in the evening the three Subalterns made their
way to the largest hotel in the town, where they found the rest of the
Mess already assembled at dinner. He often remembered this meal
afterwards, for it was the last that he had properly served for some time.
In the middle of it the Colonel was summoned hastily away by an
urgent message, and before they dispersed to their billets, the
unwelcome news was received that Battalion parade was to be at three

o'clock next morning.
"This," said he, "is the real beginning of the show. Henceforth,
horribleness."
A hunk of bread eaten during the first stage of the march was all the
breakfast he could find. Maroilles, a suburb of Landrécies, was passed,
and an hour later a big railway junction. The march seemed to be
directed on Mauberge, but a digression was made to the north-west, and
finally a halt was called at a tiny village called Harignes. The
Subaltern's men were billeted in a large barn opening on to an orchard.
After a scrap meal, he pulled out some maps to study the country which
lay before them, and what should meet his eye but the field of Waterloo,
with all its familiar names: Charleroi, Ligny, Quatrebras, Genappes, the
names which he had studied a year ago at Sandhurst. Surely these
names of the victory of ninety-nine years ago were a good omen!
"You've only left Sandhurst a year, you ought to know all about this
country," some one told him.
A horrible rumour went about that another move was to be made at five
o'clock the same evening, but this hour was subsequently altered to two
o'clock the next morning. That night a five-franc postal order was given
to every man as part of his pay.
Even in the height of summer there is always a feeling of ghostliness
about nocturnal parades. The darkness was intense. As might be
expected, the men had not by any means recovered from the heat and
exertion of the previous day, and were not in the best of tempers. The
Subaltern himself was so tired that he had to lie down on the cold road
at each hourly halt of ten minutes, and, with his cap for a pillow, sleep
soundly for at least eight of those minutes. Then whistles were sounded
ahead, the men would rise wearily, and shuffle on their equipment with
the single effort that is the hall-mark of a well-trained soldier. The
Captain, passing along the Company, called his attention to the village
they were passing. It was Malplâquet. The grey light of dawn revealed
large open fields. "I expect this is where they fought it out," said the

Captain.
Keeping a close eye upon the map, he could tell almost to a hundred
yards where the boundary of Belgium crossed the road. A few miles
further, a halt for breakfast was ordered, as it was about eight o'clock.
The Colonel called for Company Commanders, and while they were
away Sir John French,