XIV. THE BACK OF THE FRONT XV. IN THE TRENCHES--AN OFF-DAY XVI. "DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSS-ROADS TO-NIGHT" XVII. THE NEW WARFARE XVIII. THE FRONT OF THE FRONT XIX. THE TRIVIAL ROUND XX. THE GATHERING OF THE EAGLES XXI. THE BATTLE OF THE SLAG-HEAPS "K(1)" _We do not deem ourselves A 1, We have no past: we cut no dash: Nor hope, when launched against the Hun, To raise a more than moderate splash. But yesterday, we said farewell To plough; to pit; to dock; to mill. For glory_? Drop it! _Why? Oh, well-- To have a slap at Kaiser Bill. And now to-day has come along. With rifle, haversack, and pack, We're off, a hundred thousand strong. And--some of us will not come back. But all we ask, if that befall, Is this. Within your hearts be writ This single-line memorial_:-- He did his duty--and his bit! NOTE The reader is hereby cautioned against regarding this narrative as an official history of the Great War. The following pages are merely a record of some of the personal adventures of a typical regiment of Kitchener's Army. The chapters were written from day to day, and published from month to month. Consequently, prophecy is occasionally falsified, and opinions moderated, in subsequent pages. The characters are entirely fictitious, but the incidents described all actually occurred. BOOK ONE BLANK CARTRIDGES The First Hundred Thousand I AB OVO "Squoad--'_Shun!_ Move to the right in fours. Forrm--_fourrrs!_" The audience addressed looks up with languid curiosity, but makes no attempt to comply with the speaker's request. "Come away now, come away!" urges the instructor, mopping his brow. "Mind me: on the command 'form fours,' odd numbers will stand fast; even numbers tak' a shairp pace to the rear and anither to the right. Now--forrm _fourrs!_" The squad stands fast, to a man. Apparently--nay, verily--they are all odd numbers. The instructor addresses a gentleman in a decayed Homburg hat, who is chewing tobacco in the front rank. "Yous, what's your number?" The ruminant ponders. "Seeven fower ought seeven seeven," he announces, after a prolonged mental effort. The instructor raises clenched hands to heaven. "Man, I'm no askin' you your regimental number! Never heed that. It's your number in the squad I'm seeking. You numbered off frae the right five minutes syne." Ultimately it transpires that the culprit's number is ten. He is pushed into his place, in company with the other even numbers, and the squad finds itself approximately in fours. "Forrm--two _deep!_" barks the instructor. The fours disentangle themselves reluctantly, Number Ten being the last to forsake his post. "Now we'll dae it jist yince more, and have it right," announces the instructor, with quite unjustifiable optimism. "Forrm--_fourrs!_" This time the result is better, but there is confusion on the left flank. "Yon man, oot there on the left," shouts the instructor, "what's your number?"