On the promenade deck, gay in a scarlet jumper, over-weighted a little by his large khaki-covered helmet, leans upon a stanchion a very junior subaltern. His boyish, hairless face is blue with the cold frost-fog, he is biting very rapidly and nervously at the end of a cigar that went out ere half its length was smoked. Looking up at him from the wharf below, a group isolated from other groups holds a tall lady clad in furs, heavily veiled, her handkerchief peeping from her muff, and one arm resting heavily upon that of a grey-haired military man, while son and daughter, or nephew and niece, perhaps, gather protectingly to her side. There is still delay. The gangways are removed, but still the hawsers hold. The cold compels the watchers on the wharf to take a few hurried, swiftly-turned paces up and down its length. The voyagers stamp upon the deck, or beat a furtive arm across a swelling chest. But they do not turn even for a second from contemplation of that shore they may never see again.... A whistle blows, there is the sound of a cable slipping through the water, the lady in the furs comes hastily forward, puts up her veil a little way and tries to shout. The youthful subaltern leans out perilously over the side. The words come faintly up.... "Goodbye! Rex.... God bless you!... I know I shall see you again...." The lady beats her hand desperately upon her muff, and dabs her handkerchief unknowingly against her veil.... The band aft is playing "Auld Lang Syne," a stretch of greenish water spreads between ship and shore, a few half-hearted cheers are rising through the grey fog, and the sound of a melancholy chapel bell in the distant town tells of a half-forgotten Sabbath.... The subaltern's eyes no longer see things clearly, and the handkerchief he waves as answer to those fluttering along the grey length of the quay is heavy and damp.... So we come a little closer to the realities of war. * * * * * Lights flicker and gleam in the dark shade of the poplar trees fringing the platform. There is a hush over those who hold space upon the gravel before the station-master's office. In the darkness it is difficult to see who one's neighbour may chance to be. But voices betray the presence of the P.M.O. and half a dozen officers from the Field Hospital behind the church. At the other end of the platform lie the sinister stretchers of a bearer company laid out in an interminable row. Up to the line comes the low melancholy whistle of the armoured train....