The real test was beginning. Like everybody who had not been there, he was almost entirely ignorant of life in the trenches. Newspapers, illustrated periodicals, almost useless. He had heard a lot of tales from returned wounded soldiers. But many of them either blathered or were quite inarticulate. Here and there a revealing detail or memory. “And all the time I was delirious after I was wounded, I kep’ seein’ them aeryplanes goin’ round and round and then makin’ a dive at me.” And the little Cockney: “Struth! I got me tunic and me trowses all ’ung up in Fritz’s wire, an’ I couldn’t get orf. Got me pockets full o’ bombs, I ’ad, as well as them stick-bombs in paniers. One of the paniers was ’ung up too, an’ I ses to myself I ses: ‘If you drop them muckin’ bombs, Bert, you’ll blow yer muckin’ ’ead orf.’ And there was old Fritz’s machine gun bullets whizzin’ by, _zip_, _zip_. I could see ’em cuttin’ the wire—and me cursin’ and blindin’. Blimey! I wasn’t arf afraid. But I got me muckin’ blighty, anyway.” Where did he meet that amusing little Cockney? Ah, yes, in the depot the day after he joined. There had been several soldiers just out of the hospital in the barrack room, all swopping yarns. Winterbourne’s mind reverted to himself, and the past dreary months. He had been unfortunate in the N.C.O.’s of his training battalion—old regulars, who had been bullied and driven in their time, and thought they’d escape being sent out to France by zealously bullying and driving the new drafts. No doubt they were paying off some of the old army grudge against civilian contempt for the mercenary soldier. They particularly hated any educated or well-bred man in the ranks, and delighted to impose painful or humiliating tasks on him. George remembered the man who “took particulars” of his religion. “What are yer? C. of E., Methodist, R. C.?” “I haven’t any official religion. You’d better put me down as a rationalist.” “Garn! What’s a muckin’ rationalist? Yer in the Army now.” “Well, I haven’t got one.” “Bloody well find one then. Yer’ll want suthin’ over yer muckin’ grave in France, won’t yer? An’ yer’ll bloody well be in it in six months. No religion! Strike me muckin’ pink!” An amiable hero. In his zeal for religion he got Winterbourne sent on all the dirtiest and longest Sunday fatigues, until in self-defence he had to put himself down Church of England. There was, of course, no religious compulsion in the Army; that was why Church Parade was a parade. Winterbourne smiled as he thought of the ludicrous scene. It had been none the less painful. His gorge rose at the memory of the filth he had tried to remove from the Officers’ Mess Kitchen—filth which had been left there untouched by fifty less scrupulous “fatigues.” The kitchen was inspected every day.