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ON SATURDAY afternoon we made a short train
journey and then marched four easy miles to a
village called La Chaussee. Twenty-four hours5 rest
and a shave had worked the usual miracle with the
troops (psychological recovery was a problem which
no one had time to recognize as existent) and now we
were away from the Line for at least a fortnight* It
was a dusty golden evening, and the road led us
through quiet green country. Delusively harmonious,
perhaps, is that retrospective picture of the Battalion
marching at ease along an unfrequented road, at the
end of a July afternoon, with Colonel Kinjack riding
rather absent-mindedly in front, or pulling up to
watch us go past him—his face thoughtful and indul-
gent and expressing something of the pride and satis-
faction which he felt.

So it will go on, I thought; in and out, in and out,
till something happens to me. We had come along the
same road last January. Only five officers of that lot
were with us now: not many of them had been killed,
but they had "faded away" somehow or other, and
my awareness of this created a deceptive sense of
"the good old days". Yesterday afternoon Fd heard
that Cromlech had been killed up at High Wood.
This piece of news had stupefied me, but the pain
hadn't begun to make itself felt yet, and there was no