And somewhat as foreigners they were received; shyly by Colonel Andrews, unemotionally by Simcox, bluffly by Major Mosely. There was a feeling of stiffness in the air. Outwardly the mere entertainment of two junior subalterns; inwardly, the ceremony betokened reconciliation, an acknowledgment that the 10th Chalkshires had a debt to pay, was paying it. Nobody mentioned Locksley; no one proposed a toast; but all the faces down the two long tables seemed conscious of a special occasion. . . . * * * * * A great white moon burned over the tin roofs of the hutments as the two mounted their horses; walked them slowly across the sleeping camp. “I always said”—Bromley broke silence gravely—“that, except for Locksley, there was nothing wrong with the old Chalkshires. They’re a jolly fine crowd—now. And when we do go out. . . .” “If we ever _get_ out,” from Peter. “They’ll give a good account of themselves. Curious, isn’t it, that if it hadn’t been for that fellow, we might still be with ‘B’ Company. Both Captains, perhaps.” They dismounted; led their horses—groom following—down the hill. “Did you realize when we transferred,” asked Peter, voicing a thought that had just arisen for the first time in his mind, “that one would be more comfortable, safer perhaps, in the Gunners?” “No.” “More did I. But all those chaps seemed to think so. I wonder if it’s true.” “I should doubt it.” Both were destined to remember that conversation, in the very near future, at the Disaster of Loos! PART TWELVE CONCENTRATIONS § 1 A woman may forget her love, a child its mother, but no Gunner ever quite forgets his first long route-march—the clink of chain and the thop of hooves on the roadway, crunch of wheels and rattle of waggons, the men’s faces on the limbers, the smoke of their cigarettes curling into the air. . . . It was early June when the fourth Southdown Brigade left Shoreham for its final concentration at Aldershot; and for three sun-drenched days, the mile-long column rolled on its way, inland from the sea, across the swelling weald, by white cottages where children waved and cheered, through sleepy villages and woods damp with early dews, halting to water at shallow pools on green commons, rolling on again in the warm glow of afternoon, horse-heads nodding in unison, traces taut, “numbers one” riding proudly behind their waggons. True, they had no guns as yet: true that Lodden’s water-cart overturned on the steep upward slope out of Happy Valley: true that Stark growled at them for clumsy tailors: that fat Doctor Carson, red-cheeked and nearly white-haired, fifty if a day, grew so stiff he could hardly climb to horse:—still, they were moving, moving slowly towards the job for which each had joined, Active Service.