THE BATTLE OF FRANCE
gave 'Eyes Left', twenty yards beyond it 'Eyes
Front'. The heads turned abruptly as if mounted on
a single pivot. They were all giants, these men.
Battalion followed battalion. One command
alternated with the other. The King saluted each
platoon all during its march past and never relaxed
for one moment except between the companies. He
looked young, vigorous, happy.
After lunch the troops paraded on the lawns of
the chateau. So long were the khaki lines that their
ends were lost in the mist that hung above the
hedgerows. The King passed slowly between the
ranks and that evening the men would be writing
proudly to their womenfolk: It was great. ... I was
so close to the King I could have touched him/ The
review ended, the Brigadier, his steel-helmet in his
hand, opened the gates that had been holding in
check that mighty flood of enthusiasm.
'Three cheers for His Majesty the King!'
The British cheers rolled away across the French
fields and they in their turn echoed a muffled
'Hurrah . . . Hurrah!'
The sheep browsed on, impassable.
Pooling
When the King moves through one long day
from a battery to an air-field, from an infantry
brigade to a tank section, it is naturally impossible
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