Meanwhile, the inevitable wastages of warfare—commenced at Loos and continued in the City of Fear—went on among that collection of voluntary fighters known as the Fourth Southdown Brigade, Royal Field Artillery. Now “re-organization” came to complete the process. “Billy” Williams and his command were transferred _en bloc_ to the enlarged Divisional Ammunition Column—still presided over by that same Colonel Mallory who had dined with the Weasel on Christmas Eve, 1914: Bromley and his eighteen-pounders were exchanged for a Howitzer battery: Doctor Carson secured a specialist appointment at the Base—his place being taken by Laurillard, a young and not too sympathetic student of St. Bartholomew’s hospital: Horrocks the Veterinary officer took promotion, Morency a leg-breaking fall from his horse, and Stanley Purves to an impassioned flow of soldier poetry. “Shan’t have a friend left at this rate,” thought our Mr. Jameson. And then to crown disasters, the Weasel announced his own promotion to Brigadier. “Take you with me as A.D.C.,” he rasped as they wandered out, on that last morning, to inspect the batteries. “Thank you, Colonel.” The phrase rose easily to Peter’s lips; but the tone of it was utterly non-committal. They walked on. “Well?” continued Stark. “It’s very decent of you, Colonel, but—” “Nice soft job, P.J.!” “Too soft, Colonel.” They looked each other in the eyes. Then the Weasel said: “You’re a married man, P.J.” and Peter, stubbornly: “What difference does that make, Colonel?” “The pay’s better.” “I didn’t join the army to make money, sir.” “Damn you, P.J. Don’t ‘Sir’ me when we’re alone.” The rasp softened. “Don’t make an ass of yourself, P.J., I know you’ve had a pretty thin time, one way and another since you joined up. . . .” “But at that,” as General Stark wrote his young wife some days later, “he seemed to freeze up completely; and when Revelsworth came to take over command—you’ll remember Revelsworth, darling, he used to be in the old show at Hillsea—P.J. asked me, as a particular favour, to send him to a battery. . . . He’s a dashed sight too good for ordinary subaltern’s work; but of course I couldn’t tell him so. . . . Bit of the fanatic about P.J. . . . Said he wanted to kill a Hun or two. . . . I shouldn’t mention anything to that nice wife of his when you write her.” Which will serve to explain why Lieutenant-Colonel Percival Revelsworth’s orders bore the signature: “Stanley Purves, Lieutenant and Adjutant, Fourth Southdown Bde., R.F.A.” § 3