It is a great day for the conscript when the regiment marches out from barracks. Farewell for a time, and in the case of the second-year men farewell for good, to the barrack routine. They leave in barracks the things they will not require on field service, the materials for what the British soldier knows as "spit and polish soldiering," and the conscript starts out with his field kit and equipment, prepared to have a good time. The infantry swing out through the barrack gates, a long column of marching men; they talk among themselves of what they will do when manoeuvres are over; the second-year men talk of going away, back to their homes, and of turning their backs on military service; they have done the duty their country asked of them, and now are at liberty to think of a good time--almost a holiday, in spite of the hard work and marching involved, with which they will end their service--to last them through the coming weeks, after which they will resume civilian attire and work. It has been a hard business, this conscript period, but France asked it, and _ma foi_, but we are men now! The stern strictness of the instructors, the unending discipline imposed by sergeants and corporals, the everlasting watchfulness of the adjutant over buttons and boots and the correct method of saluting--proper perspective, rapidly growing in the mind of the man nearing the end of his second year, assures him that these things are needs of a good army. And then, he is going out on manoeuvres, among the apple orchards or the hill villages; he is going to show the country what its soldiers are like, and almost, but not quite, he regrets that the end of his period of military service is nearly in sight. The time to which he looks forward colours his view of all things; the barracks are behind, and before him is the open road--that long, straight road which, in so many districts of France, goes on and on across bare plains, to human sight a thread laid right across the fabric of the world without bend or divergence. A road of white dust which, as soon as the barracks are left behind, rises from the many footsteps of the marching men and envelops the column. The band in front goes free of the dust, and well it is that the throats of the bandsmen are not choked and dried with the insidious stuff, for one marches better, far better, with the music.