Now the British candidates march up one by one for their medals, hale,
hearty men, brown and fit. There is a smart young officer of Scottish
Rifles; and then a selection of Worcesters, Welsh Fusiliers and Scots
Fusiliers, with one funny little Highlander, a tiny figure with a
soup-bowl helmet, a grinning boy's face beneath it, and a bedraggled
uniform. 'Many acts of great bravery'--such was the record for which he
was decorated. Even the French wounded smiled at his quaint appearance,
as they did at another Briton who had acquired the chewing-gum habit,
and came up for his medal as if he had been called suddenly in the
middle of his dinner, which he was still endeavouring to bolt. Then
came the end, with the National Anthem. The British regiment formed
fours and went past. To me that was the most impressive sight of any.
They were the Queen's West Surreys, a veteran regiment of the great
Ypres battle. What grand fellows! As the order came 'Eyes right,' and
all those fierce, dark faces flashed round about us, I felt the might
of the British infantry, the intense individuality which is not
incompatible with the highest discipline. Much they had endured, but a
great spirit shone from their faces. I confess that as I looked at
those brave English lads, and thought of what we owe to them and to
their like who have passed on, I felt more emotional than befits a
Briton in foreign parts.

* * * * *

Now the ceremony was ended, and once again we set out for the front. It
was to an artillery observation post that we were bound, and once again
my description must be bounded by discretion. Suffice it, that in an
hour I found myself, together with a razor-keen young artillery
observer and an excellent old sportsman of a Russian prince, jammed