Although an alarming rumour reached them that the enemy, crowded into motor buses, had already reached St. Quentin, nothing disturbed their rest during the night, and by dawn the column was swinging along the road to La Fère. The men were always depressed and weary in the early morning. Their spirits never began to rise until eight or nine o'clock. Then songs would break out. "Who were you with last night?" "Hold your hand out, naughty boy!" and the inevitable "Tipperary," were the favourites. They would often whistle the "Marseillaise." A certain "swing" entered into the marching; there was less changing step, less shuffling. Even their weary faces brightened. Jokes became positively prolific, and the wit of the barrack-room, considered as wit, is far funnier than the humour of the Mess. Perhaps it is founded on a deeper knowledge of life.
Towards midday, almost imperceptibly, the gist of the songs changed to the sentimental, and before very long the heat and fatigue gradually overcame the men, and songs ceased altogether. As a general rule, after two o'clock the mental attitude of the troops might be described as black, distinctly black.
The rumour ran down the column that La Fère was to be the termination of that day's march, and as La Fère was only a matter of ten miles away, it was felt that at last an "easy" day had arrived. The road led through very pleasant places along a river valley, the opposite slope of which was wooded. That morning, too, there was no suspicion of artillery fire. It seemed that, for the moment at any rate, they had escaped the inconvenience of battle. Somebody said that La Fère was fortified. Behind its works they would doubtless stand, rest, and then perhaps fight. (Even yet they had not learnt the futility of speculation.)
Those ten miles were long ones. It almost seemed to their tantalised nerves that La Fère was not a town, but a mirage. And so it was, or at least their thoughts of rest and water and food remained "in nebulis."
Outside the town was a road-crossing. One way led to the main street of the town, and the other way to the south. To the consternation and amazement of everybody, the khaki ribbon crept, not towards the houses, but seemed for a dreadful moment to hesitate, to wobble, then turned its head slowly and irrevocably away from the town. The men swore. They felt that they were a scale on the skin of a long, sombre, khaki serpent, whose head had acted contrary to the wishes of its belly. And the body of the serpent quivered with indignation. The Subaltern himself felt that he had been cheated, lured on by false pretences, and generally treated shamefully. He knew perfectly well that these ideas were groundless and absurd. He knew that the halt at La Fère was only rumour; he knew long marches were the only thing to save them, but in spite of this knowledge he was angry, enraged. The blood flew still more to his burning cheeks, his teeth snapped together. If he could, he would have flown to the head of the column, drawn his revolver, and emptied it in the face of that General. He positively enjoyed picturing the results of such a crime. He chortled over the idea of the plump figure falling from the comfortable saddle to the hard, hot road. He imagined the neat red cap lying in the grey dust. And his boots, he knew what they would be like—glossy mahogany! Why should any one have shining boots, when his own were dull and bursting? Why should any one be clean and shaven when his own face was smeared with dirt and stubble? He exulted inwardly at the thought of the death and mutilation of some one who had never done him the slightest harm, and whose efficiency had probably saved his life.
Such is human nature!
CHAPTER IX
SIR JOHN FRENCH
A few miles south of La Fère, the Brigade was halted in an orchard for its midday rest. Taking from his pockets the various parts of his safety razor, the Subaltern screwed them together, and with the help of a bit of soap, from which the biscuit crumbs and chocolate dust of his haversack had first to be carefully scraped, he shaved. As he was returning, lovingly fingering his once more smooth cheeks, he saw three large Daimler limousines draw up opposite the lines, and recognised them immediately as the authorised pattern of car for the use of the higher British Generals in the field.