Perhaps they will come out to-morrow night. Or, early, very early the following morning. They will be tired--so tired they are past feeling it--unshaven, unwashed, and covered with mud from their steel helmets down to the soles of their boots. But they will be fairly cheerful. They will try to sing on the long, long march back here, as I have heard them so many times before. When they reach the edge of the town they will try to square their weary shoulders, and to keep step--and they will do it, too, heaven only knows _how_, but they will do it. Their leader will feel very proud of them, which is only right and proper. He will call them “boys,” encourage the weak, inwardly admire and bless the strong. And he will be proud of the mud and dirt, proud of his six days’ growth of beard. Satisfied; because he has just done one more little bit, and the Good Lord has pulled him through it. When they get to their billets they will cheer; discordantly, but cheer none the less. They will crowd into the place, and drop their kits and themselves on top of them, to sleep the sleep of the just--the well-earned sleep of utter fatigue. In the morning they will feel better, and they will glance at you with an almost affectionate look in their eyes, for they know--as the men always know--whether you have proved yourself, whether you have made good--or failed. “Pansies ... that’s for thoughts....” And I am out of it--out of it _ALL_ ... preparing “To re-organise what is left of the regiment.” For God’s sake, Holman, take away those flowers! GOING BACK A large crowd packed the wide platform, hemmed in on one side by a barrier, on the other by a line of soldiers two paces apart. The boat-train was leaving in five minutes. That a feeling of tension permeated the crowd was evident, from the forced smiles and laughter, and the painful endeavours of the departing ones to look preternaturally cheerful. In each little group there were sudden silences. Almost at the last moment a tall, lean officer pressed through the crowd, made for a smoking-carriage, and got in. He surveyed the scene with a rather compassionate interest, while occasionally a wistful look passed over his face as he watched for a moment an officer talking with a very pretty girl, almost a child, who now and then mopped her eyes defiantly with a diminutive handkerchief. “All aboard.” The pretty girl lifted up her face, and the lonely one averted his eyes, pulled a newspaper hastily from his overcoat pocket, and proceeded to read it upside down!