"'E's fair dotty on the bird," said Bubb. "But 'e's forgotten hisself," Snogger remarked. "If Captain Thorley finds 'im missin' he'll be for it. Ah, 'ere 'e comes." Fitzgerald came out from the barn fully equipped and took his place in the ranks. "Ye're just in time," said Snogger. "Another minute late and ye'd be for it." Fitzgerald laughed awkwardly and cast a sheepish glance back at the barn. Fifi was standing at the door, and Bubb vowed she was crying. "Fancy 'er cryin' cos you're goin' off, Fitz," he said. Fitzgerald did not reply. The company marched off, the men singing at the tops of their voices; Spudhole, as was his wont, leading the singing. He was a most vivacious youth, full of high spirits and good humour, fond of his fun and his beer, and as vital at the end of a journey as at the beginning. Despite the distance which a regiment may travel, the soldier is as circumscribed in his area as the spoke of a limber wheel. The space is confined, and Spudhole Bubb was no less a prisoner on the march than he had been in the guard-room. Always the same mates in front, the same ruddy necks pressed sturdily back, the same red-brick hands swinging across the khaki, the same entrenching tool handles waving backwards and forwards, the same round loaves tied to the packs, the same red-haired sergeant with the tops of his ears pressing tightly to his head, the same platoon commander who now and again stood out from the ranks and shouted the ancient words of command. "Get a step there, get a step!" or "Cover off from the front" or some such order. Once in every hour a whistle was blown and the whole battalion halted. The Captain of a company would step out in front, halt, turn about and shout at the top of his voice, "Ten minutes. Left of the road. Fall out!" The men would loosen their equipment and throw themselves down anywhere. Cigarettes would be lit, jokes passed, and rations taken out of haversacks. A few would drink from their water bottles, sipping the water carefully, for it was impossible to know when the next pump would be reached. At the end of the fourth hour and the sixteenth fag (Spudhole computed the length of a march by the number of fags he smoked on the route), Fitzgerald, who had been silent for quite a long time, turned to Benners and said: "You know, I had a damned strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was up in the trenches fighting a big German who got in my way somehow, and he ran his bayonet through my neck." "You may get killed this time," said Benners. "No, not this time," Fitzgerald replied. "I decided that by the cards last night. 'Red: I come back safe; black: I don't' I said to myself, cut the cards and turned up the ace of hearts. A good omen." "'Ear old Fitz!" muttered Spudhole, "'e's always pullin' our legs." "You don't understand, Spudhole," said Fitzgerald. "I'm damned superstitious. Once I dreamt...."