That day saw the inauguration of a new kind of misery for our troops.  Dust, heat and thirst, their previous tormentors, retired in favour of mud, chill and an unappeasable hunger.  Their overstrained nerves and worn bodies rendered them very susceptible even to the first breath of autumn.

The Subaltern had lost all his underwear except his shirt, and part of his socks.  His breeches were torn at the knee, and he felt the chill of the wind very acutely.  He could feel the damp mud through the flapping toes of his boot.

Then it began to rain—­no mere light summer shower, that cooled one’s face and clothes, and delightfully wet one’s hands, but a real autumnal downpour.  Hastily he undid the straps which tied his Burberry, and shuffled into it, as he marched along.  It was caked with mud, and smelt of the earth that he had so often grovelled in, but as he fastened the hooks beneath his chin, he felt profoundly glad of it, elated that he had something to keep off the chill and wet.  He buttoned it down to his knees and experienced the faint sensation of comfort that one feels when drawing one’s blinds to shut out a stormy night.

* * * * *

Then the guns began to rattle by; always an ominous sign, for it meant that battle was imminent.  It was a remarkable thing that neither infantry nor artillery took much notice of each other as they met.  The guns and carriages would thunder and bump and clatter over the pave, the thickset horses straining at their harness, the drivers urging them on.  But the infantry would plod along just the same, regardless of the noise and bustle.  The men would not even raise their eyes from the boots of the preceding four.

Very soon after the last gun-carriage had rattled past, sounds of a bombardment would be heard—­the bangs and whizz of shells.  The Column would probably be halted, while a reconnaissance was made to ascertain in what force the enemy was holding his position.  As a rule, deployments were not necessary, for the artillery generally succeeded in dislodging the enemy off their own bat.  Such affairs as this happened no less than three times before it was dark, and in each case the Germans had had to leave their dead and wounded behind them.

One poor fellow lay with his head propped up against a heap of stones by the wayside.  His chin and mouth had been torn from his face, and the ragged flesh hung in tatters, red and bleeding, as it had been torn.  Almost before their eyes the man was passing away.  It was awful.

“Poor devil, all this ’ere wasn’t ’is fault, yer know,” a man muttered.

As far as the Subaltern could hear, no one answered him.  Perhaps some of them were wondering where that dying man’s soul was going to.  One was a Christian, of course, but one wanted to know more.  One wanted, very badly, a little precise, definite knowledge of What Happens—­after.  At that moment he hated Hamlet.  Yet the words kept surging through his brain:  “To die ... to sleep ... in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?... puzzles the will ... makes us rather bear the ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of!”