anti wagons were parked; behind them in three straight lines our horses had their standings. In the bowl of the valley, as far as eye could stretch, the wheat grew yellow. Round the lip of the bowl, where the hills touched the sky, the coolness of woods drew a thick green line. It was a very quiet spot, mellow with nightingales, and lazy with summer. It gave no hint of battle, except at night when the bombing planes came over to destroy us and the chalky fingers of searchlights unravelled the clouds and suddenly pointed. When they pointed, every Archie for miles round would open up at an intense rate of fire.     

       I say it gave no hint of battle. That is not quite precise. What I mean is that the country itself gave no hint of unrest in its own appearance. Among the people the signs were plentiful. There were ourselves for instance. Every village was parked with storm-troops, being fattened up like turkeys for killing. There were Chinamen building new railways through the grain in preparation for the retreat which seemed inevitable. All kinds of new trench-systems were being dug, that we might dispute every inch of territory. Down the gleaming roads little processions of refugees were continually passing, led by an old horse, tied together with       rope and string, and harnessed into a creaking dilapidated wagon. The wagon was invariably overloaded with things which looked absolutely worthless. On the shafts of the wagon a disconsolate man would sit, staring vacantly at everything and nothing. Following behind on foot would come a dog, some dirty children and a draggle-tailed woman. The woman seemed to be the least important part of the man’s possessions. Only the mouldy skeleton between the shafts seemed to hold any place in his affections; it helped him to escape. Every day such processions crawled through the sunshine. Our men laughed and shared their rations with the       children. Ah, how merry we were and how much we laughed while we waited for death to call us! The refugees were fleeing towards life—a life which they dreaded. We had nothing to fear from living—life had done its worst.     

       Not for an hour in the day or night did the guns cease their distant chiding, lowing like cattle and bidding us return. That we would return dramatically and without warning we were well aware. We were only ignorant of the place and time. We had cut down our kits to what was absolutely necessary; everything superfluous had been returned to Blighty. Our brigade held 

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