A dirty yard, with the usual midden in the middle, is surrounded by buildings on all sides. Nearest to the road is the great barn, which has been the platoon’s home for the last few days. It is not an ideal billet. The floor is of trampled earth, with a little straw here and there; a timber framework, filled in with clay and straw, forms the walls; the roof is tiled. Many holes in the walls let in light and air and allow the wind to whistle round the barn; many tiles are missing from the roof and, at night, a sleepless man can lie gazing at the stars, or feel the rain falling on his face, according to the weather. Walls, four to five feet high, subdivide the barn into several compartments. On the opposite side of the yard lies the house--all ground floor. Its kitchen is well known to the platoon, for the people have been good to the men. Many of them have sat round that strange closed stove, which will burn anything, and have drunk coffee, while they aired their French with their hosts. Stables, pig-sties, and other farm buildings form the other sides of the yard. “Blankets, rolled in bundles of ten and labelled,” have been dumped ready to be collected by the transport. Equipment has been made up and packed, and is lying about the yard. Rifles lean against the walls. The barn has been left “scrupulously clean” and passed as satisfactory. For the moment there is nothing special to do. The men stand about the yard in groups, smoking and talking. Some are drinking coffee in the kitchen. Private X is carrying on a lively conversation with “Mademoiselle.” “Fall in!” Men leisurely don their equipment, pick up their rifles, and obey. Private Y is the last as usual, and is rebuked by his section commander. N.C.O’s glance at their men and report “All Correct” to the platoon sergeant. “Platoon--’Shun!” The men come up to the position of readiness, described in the Drill Book. “Right--Dress!” They dress. “Platoon, by Sections--Number! Form--Fours! Form--Two-deep! Stand at--Ease! Stand--Easy!” The platoon is ready to move. “Platoon--’Shun!” The officer has arrived. “Platoon present and correct, sir!” A rapid inspection, a word of criticism here and there, and the men again stand easy. “Platoon--’Shun! Slope--Arms! Move to the right in Fours, Form--Fours! Right! Quick--March! Right--Wheel!” The platoon moves out of the yard. “March Easy!” Rifle slings are loosened and the rifles slung; pipes and cigarettes appear; the pace settles down to a steady hundred to the minute. With a cheery greeting to “Madame” and an affectionate farewell to “Mademoiselle,” they pass the estaminet. The roads are wet and muddy, and boots soon lose their parade polish. Now the platoon is leaving the village. A little ahead are the cross-roads, which mark the Battalion starting point. The subaltern consults his watch. Good! He is exactly on time.