Still, we are getting on.  Number Three Platoon (which boasts a subaltern) has just marched right round the barrack square, without—­

(1) Marching through another platoon.

(2) Losing any part or parts of itself.

(3) Adopting a formation which brings it face to face with a blank wall, or piles it up in a tidal wave upon the verandah, of the married quarters.

They could not have done that a week ago.

But stay, what is this disturbance on the extreme left?  The command “Right form” has been given, but six files on the outside flank have ignored the suggestion, and are now advancing (in skirmishing order) straight for the ashbin outside the cookhouse door, looking piteously round over their shoulders for some responsible person to give them an order which will turn them about and bring them back to the fold.  Finally they are rounded up by the platoon sergeant, and restored to the strength.

“What went wrong, Sergeant?” inquires Second Lieutenant Bobby Little.  He is a fresh-faced youth, with an engaging smile.  Three months ago he was keeping wicket for his school eleven.

The sergeant comes briskly to attention.

“The order was not distinctly heard by the men, sir,” he explains, “owing to the corporal that passed it on wanting a tooth.  Corporal Blain, three paces forward—­march!”

Corporal Blain steps forward, and after remembering to slap the small of his butt with his right hand, takes up his parable—­

“I was sittin’ doon tae ma dinner on Sabbath, sir, when my front teeth met upon a small piece bone that was stickit’ in—­”

Further details of this gastronomic tragedy are cut short by the blast of a whistle.  The Colonel, at the other side of the square, has given the signal for the end of parade.  Simultaneously a bugle rings out cheerfully from the direction of the orderly-room.  Breakfast, blessed breakfast, is in sight.  It is nearly eight, and we have been as busy as bees since six.

At a quarter to nine the battalion parades for a route-march.  This, strange as it may appear, is a comparative rest.  Once you have got your company safely decanted from column of platoons into column of route, your labours are at an end.  All you have to do is to march; and that is no great hardship when you are as hard as nails, as we are fast becoming.  On the march the mental gymnastics involved by the formation of an advanced guard or the disposition of a piquet line are removed to a safe distance.  There is no need to wonder guiltily whether you have sent out a connecting-file between the vanguard and the main-guard, or if you remembered to instruct your sentry groups as to the position of the enemy and the extent of their own front.

Second Lieutenant Little heaves a contented sigh, and steps out manfully along the dusty road.  Behind him tramp his men.  We have no pipers as yet, but melody is supplied by “Tipperary,” sung in ragged chorus, varied by martial interludes upon the mouth-organ.  Despise not the mouth-organ.  Ours has been a constant boon.  It has kept sixty men in step for miles on end.