The good French girls will cook brown loaves above the oven fire, And while they do the daily toil of barn and bench and byre, They'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain-- The billet boys, the London lads who won't return again. (_From "Soldier Songs."_) The men moved wearily, grunting and stumbling, their uniforms muddy and dirty, their rifles held at all angles. Now and again one would stand still for a moment, look round, readjust his equipment braces and continue marching. On all faces was a sluggish indifferent look: the march from Y---- Farm had begun centuries ago and would never end. They kept walking and walking, drowsily heedless of all that went on around them. Although midwinter the day had seemed very close, the night seemed closer still. The men sweated as they marched. The silence was profound, hopeless and oppressive. The crunching boots were part of the eternal monotonous silence; when the column halted the cessation of movement came like a blow and almost stunned them as they stood. Where was the battalion going to? Nobody seemed to know and nobody cared now. Weariness had killed the men's curiosity. Sergeant Snogger came along on the right flank of his company during one of these stoppages; his feet moving ponderously, his back crooked like an old man's. "What's up?" somebody asked. "Feel to the left or you'll be damned unlucky," he said. "Reinforcements!" His voice was almost incoherent and his tones were charged with impatience. Dark bulks took shape on their right, creaked and thundered for a moment, then vanished. "Reinforcements!" someone muttered, and added: "On buses, London buses. Same as we came on t'other day. And we've been marching nearly all the time since then!" Again the living body crawled forward step by step. Bubb leant forward on Fitzgerald's arm, fell asleep but still continued his march. Fitz could feel Bubb's hand on his own; it was soft and warm but very heavy. He tried to shake it off but it clung tighter.... Why was it done to him? The Irishman was not conscious of having done any wrong. But to press his hand with pincers and crush him down with a steam hammer--it was too much.... He was falling through space with a monstrous load on his shoulders. Down, down, ever so far down and no bottom. The fall was endless. A branch of a tree stretched out towards his hand and he strove to grip it. It evaded him and he still fell.... Fitzgerald suddenly bounced into conscious life to see figures moving forward right in front of him. Then he knew that he was still marching, marching up to battle. "What battle?" he asked himself, and then became annoyed at his own curiosity. "I don't know," he muttered. "What the hell does it matter, anyway?" "Are you sleepy?" asked Bubb, who had woke up. "No," the Irishman answered unconcernedly. "Please take your hand away! Take it away at once."