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But somehow its original spirit survived, fortified by
those company sergeant-majors and platoon sergeants
whose duties were so exacting; how much depended
on them only an ex-infantry officer can say for certain;
according to my own experience, everything depended
on them. But the Army was an interdependent
concern, and when the Brigadier met us on the road
Colonel Winchell's face assumed a different expres-
sion of anxiety from the one which it wore when he
was riding importantly up and down the column with
the Adjutant at his heels. (The Adjutant, by the way,
became a Roman Catholic priest after die War, and
it doesn't surprise me that he felt the need for a
change of mental atmosphere.) The Brigadier, in his
turn, became a more or less meek and conciliatory
man when he encountered the Divisional General.
And so on, up to Sir John French, who had lately
been replaced by Sir Douglas Haig.

We went thirteen miles that day. I remember,
soon after we started on the second day, passing the
end of an avenue, at the far end of which there was
an enticing glimpse of an ancient chateau. My heart
went out to that chateau: it seemed to symbolize
everything which we were leaving behind us. But
it was a bright morning, and what had I got to
complain about, riding cockily along on my one-
eyed mare while Dick was trudging in front of his
platoon? . . .

On the third day, having marched thirty-three
miles altogether, we entered Morlancourt, a village
in the strip of undulating landscape between the
Somme and the Ancre rivers. This was our destina-
tion (until the next day, when the troops went up to
the trenches, which were four or five miles away). It
was an ominous day, but the sun shone and the air