Amongst the hundred-and-one pictures that the Subaltern will always carry in his mind of the opening stages of the campaign, this one stands out most vividly.  The sun was shining, but it was still cool.  On the right of the road was a thick forest of young firs; on the left, a row of essentially suburban villas were being built, curiously out of place in that agricultural district.  The men were sitting on the banks of the road, or clustered round the “Cookers,” drawing their breakfast rations of bread and cold bacon.  Then the Major came back.  There was an expression on his face that showed he was well aware of the dramatic part he was about to play.  Imagine him standing by the wayside, surrounded by his Officers, two Sergeant-Majors, and some half-dozen senior Sergeants, all with pencils ready poised to write his orders in their Field Service Note-books.  There was a pause of several seconds.  The Major seemed to be at a loss quite how to begin.  “There’s a lot that I needn’t mention, but this is what concerns this Company,” he said with a jerk.  “When we reach” (here he mentioned a name which the Subaltern has long since forgotten) “we have to deploy to the left, and search the village of Harmigne to drive the enemy from it, and take up a position....”

It was a blow.  Officers were frowning over their note-books as if afraid they had not heard correctly.  The enemy here, in the western corner of Belgium?  The Major’s orders petered out.  They saluted, and returned to their platoons, feeling puzzled and a little shaken.

The Subaltern had come to this campaign with such fresh hopes of victory.  This was not to have been a repetition of ’70!  France would not have gone to war unless she had been strong and ready.  Inspired with the spirit of the First Republic, the French Armies, they had told themselves, would surge forward in a wave of victory and beat successfully against the crumbling sands of the Kaiser’s military monarchy—­Victory, drenching Germany with the blood of her sons, and adding a lustre to the Sun of Peace that should never be dimmed by the black clouds of Militarism!  And all this was not to be?  He had never even heard that Liege had fallen, let alone Brussels, and here were the Germans apparently right round the Allied flank.  It was astounding, irritating.  In a vague way he felt deceived and staggered.  It was a disillusionment!  If the Germans were across the Sambre, the French could scarcely launch their victorious attack on the Rhine.

The excitement dispelled his fatigue, but the men were openly incredulous.  “The ruddy ’Oolans ‘ere a’ready!  They’re only tellin’ us that, to make us march!”

The first fight!  How would it turn out?  How would the men shape?  Could the ammunition supply be depended upon?  But above all, what would he be like?  Would he feel afraid?  If so, would he be able to hide it?  Would his men follow him well?  Perhaps he might be wounded (parts of him shrank from the thought), or killed.  No, somehow he felt it was impossible that he would be killed.  These and a thousand more such questions flashed through his brain as the march continued northwards.