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, followed by Sir Archibald Murray and a few members
of the General Staff, passed by in motors.

Amongst the hundred-and-one pictures that the Subaltern will always
carry in his mind of the opening stages of the campaign, this one stands
out most vividly. The sun was shining, but it was still cool. On the