Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter--whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station. The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers, and small groups were standing round each carriage door. Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Presently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny. I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid for lunch. "Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That would suit me down to the ground." "Looking for trouble already," said Jones. "You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then home." "Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way, who do you think is going to carry on the war?" "Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in about a month's time will suit me down to the ground." The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu. Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The cause of the war and the prospect of its finish. "Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle. "And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins. "Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?" The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham. There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had full play.