My Major’s face, which is usually pale, is flushed tonight. His eyes are wrinkled and red about the edges; but the eyes themselves are like two blue pools of fire. As he catches sight of me, he raises his glass, “We don’t know where we’re going, Chris. Everything’s secret. All we know is that we march tonight and that they’ve get a labour battalion digging graves for us somewhere behind the line. Oh yes, and a special lorry of Victoria Crosses has arrived at Corps. We’re storm-troops, my boy, and going to be in it right up to the neck. Wherever we march and whenever we fight, here’s the old toast, ‘Success to crime.’.rdquo; I manage to let him know that our horses are outside and hint that it’s about time we were going. “Time! There’s heaps of time,” he says. “We pulled our guns out early this evening. The battery is all packed and back at the wagon-lines. Heming will have it standing to when we arrive. Sit down and take a hand. God knows when we’ll get a chance of a round of poker again.” My mind is not on the game. I’m losing steadily, but I don’t worry. The candles drip away in wax; others take their places. I scarcely see the cards; I watch only one face through the wreaths of tobacco-smoke—my gallant little Major’s. I would never have known him in peace life; neither of us would have considered the other quite his sort. He looks like a cross between a clown and an ostler. He’s very small and slight; his legs are bowed with too much riding. If one were to see him in civilian dress, it would seem right that he should be chewing a straw. His face is white as death and terribly worn. His hair is sandy and thin in places. His teeth are filled with chunks of gold and not very regular. His uniforms are never smart; after he’s had them a week, they’re always torn and stained. He’s like a bantam cock; he makes up in spirit what he misses in height. He says “Good-bye” to his temper on the first provocation and is always most handsomely sorry afterwards. He’s adored and dreaded by his men. He’s the best field-gunner for open warfare in the whole Canadian Corps. His superior officers twit and admire him. He has an extraordinary talent for collaring affection. One trusts his judgment absolutely and yet follows him with a feeling that he must be protected. Life hasn’t been very good to him; he’s not particular as to whether or no he survives the fighting! There used to be a girl in the background—Well, there’s no harm in telling. He would write ten letters to every one that he received from her. He was fearfully humble about her. “You wouldn’t expect a girl,” he used to say “to write very often to such an ugly pup as I am.” When he spoke like that he would grin self-derisively and purposely show all his gold stoppings. He went home on leave to England six months ago determined to make sure of her and to bring matters to a crisis. She met him with the news that she was going to be married to an officer whom we all knew to be a quitter.