“Why fuss so much over a little charity? Why let them salve their consciences so easily? In any case, they probably meant well. Can’t you see that drafts at the Base are nobody’s children? The stuff’s gone to the men in the line, who deserve it far more than we do. We haven’t done anything yet. Or it’s been embezzled. Anyway what does it matter? You didn’t join the army for a bit of pudding and a Christmas cracker, did you?” They were silent, unable to understand his contempt. Of course, he was unjust. They were simply grown children, angry at being defrauded of a promised treat. They could not understand his deeper rage. Any more than they could have understood his emotion each night when “Last Post” was blown. The bugler was an artist and produced the most wonderful effect of melancholy as he blew the call, which in the Army serves for sleep and death, over the immense silent camp. Forty thousand men lying down to sleep—and in six months how many would be alive? The bugler seemed to know it, and prolonged the shrill melancholy notes—“Last post! Last post!”—with an extraordinary effect of pathos. “Last post! Last post!” Winterbourne listened for it each night. Sometimes the melancholy was almost soothing, sometimes it was intolerable. He wrote to Elizabeth and Fanny about the bugler, as well as about the leave men he had seen on the boat. They felt he was getting hopelessly sentimental: “Un peu gaga?” Elizabeth suggested. Fanny shrugged her shoulders. * * * * * Two days after Christmas their orders came. They were taking off their equipment after morning parade when the Orderly Corporal pushed his head through the tent flap: “You’ve clicked!” “What? How? What y’ mean?” said several voices. “Goin’ up the line. Parade at one-thirty ready to move off immediate. Over you go, an’ the best of luck!” “What part of the line?” “Dunno, you’ll find that when y’ get there.” “What unit?” “Dunno. Some o’ you’s clicked for a Pioneer Batt.” “What’s that?” “Muckin well find out. Don’t f’get I warned yer for p’rade.”