man addressed stepped out with swaggering alacrity. We hoped he would make a mistake and were ready to jeer and laugh at him. But to our great annoyance his salute was perfect, affectedly perfect. As he came back to the ranks he leered horribly at the Sergeant and then looked at us with a smirk of triumph and self-congratulation.

More men were called out, one after the other, but as there were no further displays of pitiable shyness or nervous embarrassment (although errors were frequent) the proceedings began to bore us intensely, and once again we counted the minutes and longed for the end of the afternoon.

The Sergeant's voice was becoming hoarse and he gave us brief intervals of rest with increasing frequency. Our movements became slower. Our mistakes, instead of disappearing, became more numerous. Our faces and necks seemed on fire. They were so sunburnt that to touch them was acutely painful. Our limbs moved sluggishly and reluctantly. The Sergeant looked at his watch. "Time yet, Sergeant?" asked someone in a drawling, agonized voice.

"There's another twenty minutes ter go—we'll risk it though, and knock orf in ten. Only get along to yer 'uts as soon as I dismiss yer an' don't show yerselves nowhere, else yer'll get me into trouble."

Our weary spirits were revived a little. The prospect of a quick termination to our discomforts caused the last ten minutes to pass with comparative rapidity. We were dismissed for the day, and straggled back to our huts, too broken in mind and body to think or do anything except lie down and rest.

So this was our first day in the army. How many more days of drill would we have to endure? Perhaps we would be sent to the front soon. That would be a change at least. I tried to visualize the future. What would actual warfare be like? I thought of bayonet charges and men falling under machine-gun fire. Then I recollected having heard somewhere that a soldier can take an active part in a modern war without ever seeing the enemy, and I imagined a low range of distant hills dotted with little puffs of smoke. I could not, however, realize the precise mental state of a soldier under fire, so that none of these pictures seemed convincing to me. I wondered whether I would be anxious, nervous, terrified, excited, exuberant, or calm and indifferent in the presence of danger, but I could not arrive at any conclusion. Even the term "under fire" conveyed no precise meaning. Nothing I had read about the present war was of any help to me. The reports of the war-correspondents in the daily press were so full of obviously false psychology, that I regarded them as obstacles in the way of a proper understanding of modern warfare, and no doubt that was partly the object with which they were written or rather inspired. I knew that within a few weeks I might be dead or terribly mutilated, but as I could not visualize the precise circumstances the prospect only filled me with an indefinite uneasiness. The possibilities before me were too vague and too numerous, and I did not possess sufficient knowledge to estimate them accurately. I did not even know whether I would remain in a fighting unit. I hoped we would be sent to the front soon, for the one thing I feared was a prolongation of the dreary round of infantry drill. Moreover I was intensely curious as to the real nature of war and eager to experience new sensations and conditions. Nevertheless, from time to time I felt a wild desire to run away and enjoy a few days of freedom, but the realization of the futility of such a wish always brought on a fit of such black despair that I tried not to think about it at all.

II

THE FATIGUE PARTY

There was much gaiety amongst us. There was also much gloom and bitterness. We would often quarrel violently over nothing and enrage over little inconveniences—intense irritability is the commonest result of army life. Our morale was dominated by the small, immediate event. Bad weather and long working hours would provoke outbursts of grumbling and fretful resentment. A sunny morning and the prospect of a holiday would make us exuberantly cheerful and some of us would even assert that the army was not so bad after all. A slight deficiency in the rations would arouse fierce indignation and mutinous utterances. An extra pot of jam in the tent ration-bag would fill us with the spirit of loyalty and patriotism. If an officer used harsh, brutal words we would loathe him and meditate vengeance. But if an officer spoke to us kindly or did us some slight service we would call him a "brick," a "toff," or a "sport," and overflow with sentimental devotion. It was not difficult to please us, indeed it was often touching to observe for how small a thing the men would show the most ardent gratitude and work enthusiastically so as to show their appreciation. If those with high authority in the army had only realized the tremendous influence just a little kindness and consideration had on the morale of the troops, much hatred and misunderstanding, much useless suffering and humiliation would have been avoided.

Not that the officer was any worse than the common soldier. In fact, he was usually better. Most officers, belonging as they did to the comparatively wealthy and leisured classes, had been able to cultivate luxuries like good-nature, benevolence and politeness all their lives. But mere goodness was not sufficient.

Moreover, the very fact that a man possesses authority separates him from his fellows. How could it be otherwise? What man capable of genuine friendship could bear to exert authority over his comrades with the obligation to inflict punishment on them if he should think it "necessary"? To dominate is worse than to be dominated. The very feeling that a man has power over others gives him an exaggerated notion of his own importance and merits, it arouses latent brutality, it fosters grandiose thinking (that terribly harmful vice of nearly all our statesmen). Indeed, most of the cruelty and injustice in the world are due to the demoralizing influence of authority. And that is why there were some amongst us who would not have accepted promotion whatever material advantages it might have brought.

How could our officers, seeing that they had authority and did not live our lives, understand us and treat us as we ought to have been treated, if they were not men of exceptional imagination, sympathy, and intuition? We never had an officer who was really a bad man. At heart they were all good, kindly men—and yet how often we suffered from their lack of something more than mere goodness!

We were twelve in a tent and going to bed always tried our tempers severely. Some of us would come in with muddy boots and tread on the blankets of the others. Those who went to bed early could stretch out their legs until their feet touched the tent-pole. Those who arrived later would have to wedge themselves in as best they could and remain with knees drawn up for the rest of the night—any attempt at forcing them down would be sure to create a disturbance and lead to a furious dispute and an exchange of insults and obscenities. When we were all in bed, no one could stir without causing inconvenience to his neighbours. A sleepless night, invariably accompanied by the restless impulse to stir and fidget, was unforgettable misery, but fortunately our work was so hard that sleepless nights were very rare.

One morning when it was still dark and the others were snoring loudly I looked at my watch. It was twenty past four. Reveillé would be at half-past five, so I abandoned myself to more than another hour, so I thought, of delicious indolence. I closed my eyes and was beginning to doze and dream again when I heard the flop, flop of heavy feet treading the mud and slush outside. The canvas of the tent was banged violently and a voice, which I recognized as that of the Police Corporal, shouted:

"Reveillé—breakfast at 5 o'clock, parade at 5.30 with haversack rations."

I started