The Subaltern was elated.  He refused to question the likelihood of such tales.  He was hungry for just such cheering stories of success.  And when he got them, he devoured them with avidity, without ever looking at them.  The effect on him was bracing.  It was glorious, he told himself, to have taken part in such happenings.  The only cloud on his horizon was the fact that the chance to do distinguished acts had never come to him.  The Regimental Colours never required saving under heavy fire, for the simple reason that they reposed safely at the depot.  Neither did the Colonel, a most profitable person to rescue, ever get wounded in the open, and give an opportunity for gallant rescue work.  He had never had a chance to “stick a Bosch.”  He had never drawn his sword in a triumphant charge, never blazed his revolver in a face, never twisted a bayonet on a body.  It would require courage, he told himself, to admit these things when he was back again at home.

You must not laugh at the stories of the Machine-Gunner.  He believed what he wanted to believe.  Remember, too, that the Allies were then at the zenith of the greatest victory that was achieved in the first eighteen months of the war.  The strategical ideas of the Machine-Gunner may have been faulty, but he has saved more lives with his guns than any doctor in the land.

At about eight o’clock in the morning, the Subaltern saw the Company in front twisting off the road, and forming up in “mass” in the open field.  They were then in the centre of a large plateau, which offered an uninterrupted view of miles of flat country on every side.  A rough “outpost” disposition, with which he was fortunately not sent, was detailed, and the news was spread that there was to be a halt of several hours.

The business of drying clothes, and cleaning up, instantly began.  Ingrained soldierly cleanliness of the men was displayed.  Without any order, and in spite of their weariness, whenever they were halted over an hour in the daylight—­which had very seldom happened—­they would immediately set about shaving, and cleaning themselves and their rifles.  They shaved with the cold water, poured from their water-bottles into the lids of their canteens.  There was a vast rubbing of bolts, and “pulling through” of barrels.  An erstwhile barber in the Senior Subaltern’s Platoon did tremendous business with a pair of scissors and a comb, his patrons being seated on an upturned ammunition-case.

They had not halted long before a “mail” came in.  The Subaltern was not among the lucky few who received letters or small parcels.  Not that he minded much.  From whomever the letter might come, or in whatever vein it had been written, he admitted to himself that he would feel savage with it, and would have dismissed it as “hot air” if it were sympathetic, or as “hard-hearted” if it were anything else.

He wrote home on the now famous postcards that inform the addressee that, on such and such a date, the sender was alive and well.  He felt very relieved that at last he had an opportunity to relieve the anxiety of the people at home.