man who goes into battle stays there a corpse. My two brothers got leave from the Navy and came to see me off. I left them to do the booking of rooms at the hotel: when we went up to bed the night before I started, I found that instead of booking three rooms, they had booked one room with two beds. I didn’t comment on it.     

       It was dark when we rose. While we dressed, we talked emptily with a feverish jocularity. In the midst of a hurried breakfast four friends appeared, who had given me no previous warning of their intentions. They were people who liked their comfort; they must have travelled by workmen’s trains to get there. Chatting with a spurious gaiety, we walked over to the station through the damp raw half-light. I wasn’t allowed to carry anything. As though their minds were clocks ticking, I could hear them repeating over and over, “The Canadians will advance, or fall with their faces to the foe. Our backs are to the wall—He’ll fall,” they kept repeating; “he’ll fall.”     

       The platform was dense with khaki. Here and there one saw a frail old lady seeing her son off; there was a sprinkling of girls, who clung to their men’s arms and made a brave attempt to laugh. Then, before anything sincere had been done or said, everyone was taking his seat and the doors were being locked. There was no khaki on the platform now—only the drab of civilian costume, which made its wearers look like mourners. I leant out of the window. Suddenly one of my women friends, who had never done such a thing before, drew herself up by my hand and kissed me. The wheels began to revolve. “When you get there, keep your heads down,”       the men on the platform called “Cheerio, old things,” we answered. The girls tried to say something, put their hands to their throats and choked. Their smiles became masks. Then we were out of the station, speeding past housetops, with the wheels singing triumphantly,       “The Canadians will advance—advance—advance.”     

       We were all Canadians in my carriage. We had all been wounded—some once, some oftener. “Well, we can’t get there too soon,”       one said. To parade our assumed indifference, we began to play cards. Farther down the train, above the roar of our going, we could hear the cheery voices of the “other ranks” singing,     

       “Good-bye-ee     

       Don’t cry-ee     

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