No sooner had his Platoon wearily thrown their rifles and equipment into the musty barn that was allotted to them, than the Colonel told him that he would have to sleep with his men, the reason being that the owner of the farm, on the approach of the Germans, had hidden a large stock of brandy beneath the straw in the very barn that his men had entered.  The farmer had asked the Colonel to save his liquor from the troops, and the Colonel, with horrible visions of a regiment unmanageable and madly intoxicated before his eyes, replied that most assuredly he would see that the men did not get hold of the brandy.  The Subaltern told his sergeant, but otherwise the proximity of bliss was kept a strict secret from the men.

Throughout the whole of that long day the Subaltern had been looking forward to, longing for, and idealising the rest which was to follow after the labours of the day.  And now that it had at last been achieved, it proved to be a very poor imitation of the ideal rest and slumber that he had been yearning for.  To begin with, the delays before quarters were settled upon were interminable.  And then this news about the brandy.  The evening meal was delayed almost a couple of hours, and every minute of the delay annoyed him, because it was so much precious time for sleep lost.  Even when the meal arrived, it proved to be insufficient, and he was still hungry, cold and damp, when at last he hobbled across the yard to the barn.

The place had no ventilation.  The air was foul with the smell of damp grain, and men, and wet boots.  He hesitated at the door; he would rather have slept in the open air, but the yard was inches deep in mud and manure.  He groped forward, and at every inch that he penetrated further into the place, the air seemed to become thicker, more humid, more foul.  In the thick darkness his foot stumbled on the sleeping form of a man, who rolled over and swore drowsily.  At last, after interminable feeling in the darkness, and balancing himself on sacks of grain, he attained the corner where the bottles lay buried, and threw himself down to sleep.

But sleep was impossible.  In spite of the insupportable atmosphere he remained cold.  Every second some one was moving!  One instant a man would shuffle and cough in one corner, then some one would grunt and groan as he turned restlessly in his sleep, and the happier few who had achieved slumber would snore laboriously.  Now and then a man would rise shakily to his feet and thread his way unsteadily to the door, kicking up against recumbent forms as he went, and evoking language as murky as the atmosphere.  The Subaltern felt a savage joy in the recriminations and expletives that filled the air.  Like lightning, they relieved the thunder-pressure of the air.

CHAPTER XXII

STRATEGY AS YOU LIKE IT