But we were wonderfully placid about it all. Our regimental pipers,
who had come out to play us in, were making what the Psalmist calls
"a joyful noise" in front; and behind us lay the recollection of a
battle, still raging, in which we had struck the first blow, and borne
our full share for three days and nights. Moreover, our particular
blow had bitten deeper into the enemy's line than any other blow in
the neighbourhood. And, most blessed thought of all, everything was
over, and we were going back to rest. For the moment, the memory of
the sights we had seen, and the tax we had levied upon our bodies and
souls, together with the picture of the countless sturdy lads whom
we had left lying beneath the sinister shade of Fosse Eight, were
beneficently obscured by the prospect of food, sleep, and comparative
cleanliness.

After restoring ourselves to our personal comforts, we should
doubtless go somewhere to refit. Drafts were already waiting at the
Base to fill up the great gaps in our ranks. Our companies having been
brought up to strength, a spate of promotions would follow. We had no
Colonel, and only our Company Commander. Subalterns--what was left
of them--would come by their own. N.C.O.'s, again, would have to be
created by the dozen. While all this was going on, and the old names
were being weeded out of the muster-roll to make way for the new, the
Quartermaster would be drawing fresh equipment--packs, mess-tins,
water-bottles, and the hundred oddments which always go astray in
times of stress. There would be a good deal of dialogue of this
sort:--

"Private M'Sumph, I see you are down for a new pack. Where is your old
one?"