In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars, motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed, wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are you the Suffolks?” Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark. “Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of the Brigade, did you?” “No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.” “They’re not due yet.” Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up. “What about General Ballardyce, sir?” “God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away long.” Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin against a vehicle. “Who’s that?” “Cookers. Second Southdown Infantry Brigade,” answered Rutton’s voice. “I say that Colonel of yours is a brick.” “Oh, to hell with you and your cookers,” said Peter, and plodded on again. He had been sweating: now the perspiration began to dry. Also the black rage was on him again. He heard the jingle of bits in the darkness; somebody shouted “Halt!” A shell, out of sight, crashed to ground. Then somebody called out from his horse, “I say, you with the cigar?” “Yes,” answered Peter. “Can you tell me where I am?” “Who are you?” “Southdown Yeomanry.” Peter gave the information; and added, “I should get out of this if I were you. It’s no place for Cavalry.” Asked the somebody, “Have I your permission to retire, sir?” And Peter Jameson, Adjutant of the 4th Southdown Brigade, who had as much right to order Yeomanry out of action as Driver Jelks, said—without a quiver in his voice—“You have”; listened, cigar in mouth, to the somebody’s “Walk—March,” to the jingle of bits and the creak of accoutrements; saw the last file of that squadron disappear into the darkness. “Discipline be sugared,” thought P.J. “A child could see that this isn’t the place for Divisional Cavalry.” He plodded on, enquiring of all he met: “Have you seen General Ballardyce?” But nobody he met had either seen, heard of, smelt or felt the missing General of the 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade. § 5