THE BATTLE OF FRANCE
darkness he is strictly to attention. If he were
passing twenty yards behind his captain, who
couldn't in any case see him, he'd salute as con-
scientiously as if he could be seen doing it/
It was the first winter's day. The air was icy, the
fields thick with frost, the sky swept of its clouds.
But the mud had still to freeze and up to their ankles
in the morass the Guards, with great energy and
cheerfulness, were felling the trees that obscured
their line of fire. Sitting in the open, propped up by
a couple of spades, a private was receiving the
attentions of the battalion barber. As we splashed
through the puddles a young officer of the Welsh
Guards told me of the regiment's journey through
Paris.
'The men/ he said, 'were overwhelmed by the
welcome they got. And, above all, amazed at the
city itself. That evening, when I censored their
letters, I found them unanimous: "We've never seen
anything finer. . . .'Y
We returned to the cantonment and once again
the sentry's heels clicked violently. Once again his
rifle was snatched from his shoulder with unbeliev-
able energy. An automatism to stir a conscience.
And the admiration I felt for them in front of
Buckingham Palace in their great hats and tunics is
a little thing compared with what I feel now for
these exact giants that are watching in their battle-
dress over the gateways to France.