their friends as they passed. "Good-bye, Bill;" "Good luck, Sam!" Not a
hint of emotion in their voices. One might have thought that husbands
and fathers went away to risk their lives in war every day of the week.
And if the men were at all moved at leaving what had served for their
home, they hid it remarkably well. Songs were soon breaking out from all
parts of the column of route. As the Club House, and then the Golf Club,
stole silently up and disappeared behind him, the Subaltern wondered
whether he would ever see them again. But he refused to let his
thoughts drift in this channel. Meanwhile, the weight of the
mobilisation kit was almost intolerable.

In an hour the station was reached. An engine was shunting up and down,
piecing the troop trains together, and in twenty minutes the Battalion
was shuffling down the platform, the empty trains on either side. Two
companies were to go to each train, twelve men to a third-class
compartment, N.C.O.s second class, Officers first. As soon as the men
were in their seats, the Subaltern made his way to the seat he had
"bagged," and prepared to go to sleep. Another fellow pushed his head
through the window and wondered what had become of the regimental
transport. Somebody else said he didn't know or care; his valise was
always lost, he said; they always made a point of it.

Soon after, they were all asleep, and the train pulled slowly out of the
station.

When the Subaltern awoke it was early morning, and they were moving
through Hampshire fields at a rather sober pace. He was assailed with a
poignant feeling of annoyance and resentment that this war should be
forced upon them. England looked so good in the morning sunshine, and
the comforts of English civilisation were so hard to leave. The sinister