along in fours at the right of the road. If they can achieve two miles
an hour, they do well. At any moment they may be called upon to halt,
and crowd into the roadside, while a transport-train passes carrying
rations, and coke, and what is called "R.E. material"--this may be
anything from a bag of nails to steel girders nine feet long--up to
the firing-line. When this procession, consisting of a dozen limbered
waggons, drawn by four mules and headed by a profane person on
horseback--the Transport Officer--has rumbled past, the Company, which
has been standing respectfully in the ditch, enjoying a refreshing
shower-bath of mud and hoping that none of the steel girders are
projecting from the limber more than a yard or two, sets out once more
upon its way--only to take hasty cover again as sounds of fresh
and more animated traffic are heard approaching from the opposite
direction. There is no mistaking the nature of this cavalcade: the
long vista of glowing cigarette-ends tells an unmistakable tale.
These are artillery waggons, returning empty from replenishing the
batteries; scattering homely jests like hail, and proceeding, wherever
possible, at a hand-gallop. He is a cheery soul, the R.A. driver, but
his interpretation of the rules of the road requires drastic revision.

Sometimes an axle breaks, or a waggon side-slips off the _pavé_ into
the morass reserved for infantry, and overturns. The result is a
block, which promptly extends forward and back for a couple of miles.
A peculiarly British chorus of inquiry and remonstrance--a blend of
biting sarcasm and blasphemous humour--surges up and down the
line; until plunging mules are unyoked, and the offending vehicle
man-handled out of sight into the inky blackness by the roadside; or,
in extreme cases, is annihilated with axes. Everything has to make
way for a ration train. To crown all, it is more than likely that the
calmness and smooth working of the proceedings will be assisted by a