We’ve climbed out of the trench and stand looking down at the faces clustered in the angle formed by the lifted curtain. A few paces to my left a cross shows plainly, upon which is written, “Here lies an Unknown British Soldier.” Unknown! A hundred years from now we shall all be unknown. We shall be massed together in an anonymous glory as “the heroes who stormed the Vimy Ridge.” It won’t mean any more to be remembered as John Smith than merely as “An Unknown British Soldier” who did his duty faithfully. “Good-luck,” the faces in the candle-light cry. “Cheerio,” we answer. But the words which are in all our minds are, “Those about to die, salute thee.” Waving our hands, we turn away. The old racehorse, Fury, from a hundred yards has recognised his master’s voice and whinnies. With a pat on the neck and some coaxing words we get mounted, and walk carefully through the pit-falls of craters till we strike the road, when we grip with our knees and set off at the gallop. Beneath the moonlight the chalk of the shell-ploughed battlefield creates the illusion of a country under snow, spreading beneath the velvet darkness for miles. The horses are impatient and refuse to be reined in. They need no guiding. With Fury in the lead, they leap trenches and take short-cuts where we would hesitate. Ahead of us through the shadows we discover the battery drawn up in line, not a light or so much as a cigarette showing for fear our doings should be betrayed to the enemy planes. Heming rides out as we approach. He salutes the Major smartly. “Just in the nick of time, sir; our battery leads and we march as a brigade. There are no route orders. Everything’s secret. The Colonel alone knows where we’re going; even he doesn’t know beyond tonight.” The adjutant gallops up and reins in importantly. “The Colonel’s compliments, and he’s waiting for you, sir. He wants to know what’s the delay.” “No delay,” says the Major curtly, and wheels about to face the battery. “Stand to your horses,” he orders. “Gunners and drivers prepare to mount.... Mount.” There’s a jingling of stirrups and the sound of men leaping to their places. As they sit to attention on the limbers and in the saddles, all grows silent. “Column of route from the right. Walk. March,” the Major commands. The horses of A Sub-section gun-team throw their weight into the collars. There’s a commotion of prancing in the darkness and the merciless sound of the cracking of whips: then through the shadows the big bays of A Sub strain forward and take shape; the B. C. party gallops to the head of the column and we’re off on our mysterious march in pursuit of the greatest of high adventures. BOOK II—THE MARCH TO CONQUEST I