A groan went up from the dark shadows of the dimly-lighted barn, which died down gradually on the order to “cut it out.” “Sick parade at 7.30 A.M. at the M.O.’s billet Menin-lee-Chotaw,” announced the O.S. sombrely. “Any of you men who wanter go sick give in your names to Corporal Jones right now.” Yells of “Right here, Corporal,” “I can’t move a limb, Corporal,” and other statements of a like nature, announced the fact that there were quite a number of gentlemen whose pronounced view it was that they could not do an eight-mile route march the next day. Corporal Jones emerged, perspiring, after half an hour’s gallant struggle. Being very conscientious he took full particulars, according to Hoyle: name, number, rank, initials, age, religion, and nature of disease. The last he invariably asked for by means of the code phrase, “wossermarrerwi_you_?” Having refused to admit at least half a dozen well-known scrimshankers to the roll of sick, lame, and lazy, he finished up with Private Goodman, who declared himself suffering from “rheumatics hall over. Me legs is somethin’ tur’ble bad.” There were thirteen names on the report. Menin-le-Château being a good three kilometres distant, the sick fell in at 6.30 A.M. the next day. The grey dawn was breaking in the East, and a drizzling rain made the village street even more miserable-looking than it was at all times. As on all sick parades, all the members thereof endeavoured to look their very worst, and succeeded admirably for the most part. They were unshaven, improperly dressed, according to military standards, and they shuffled around like a bunch of old women trying to catch a bus. Corporal Jones was in a very bad temper, and he told them many things, the least of which would have made a civilian’s hair turn grey. But, being “sick,” the men merely listened to him with a somewhat apathetic interest. They moved off in file, a sorry-looking bunch of soldiers. Each man chose his own gait, which no injunctions to get in step could affect, and a German under-officer looking them over would have reported to his superiors that the morale of the British troops was hopeless. At 7.25 A.M. this unseemly procession arrived in Menin-le-Château. In the far distance Corporal Jones espied the Regimental Sergeant-Major. The latter was a man whom every private considered an incarnation of the devil! The junior N.C.O.’s feared him, and the Platoon Sergeants had a respect for him founded on bitter experience in the past, when he had found them wanting. In other words he was a cracking good Sergeant-Major of the old-fashioned type. He was privately referred to as Rattle-Snake Pete, a tribute not only to his disciplinary measures, but also to his heavy, fierce black moustachios, and a lean, eagle-like face in which was set a pair of fierce, penetrating black eyes. “If,” said Corporal Jones loudly, “you all wants to be up for Office you’ll _walk_. Otherways you’ll _march_! There’s the Sergeant-Major!”