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to good old Blighty". Compared with "the troops",
who travelled in vans designed for horses and cattle,
they were in clover. The Colonel, on the other hand,
probably supervised an office full of clerks who made
lists of killed, wounded, and reinforcements. I had
visited such a place myself in an attempt to get my
name transferred to the First Battalion, and had been
received with no civility at all. They were all much
too busy to rearrange the private affairs of a dissatis-
fied second-lieutenant, as might have been expected.
But the contrast between the Front Line and the Base
was an old story, and at any rate the Base Details
were at a disadvantage as regards the honour and
glory which made the War such an uplifting experi-
ence for those in close contact with it. I smiled sar-
donically at the green and gold Colonel's back view.
The lift ascended again, leaving a confused murmur
of male voices and a clatter of feet on the polished
wood floor. Officers pushed through the swing-doors
in twos and threes, paused to buy an English paper
from the concierge, vanished to hang up their over-
coats, and straddled in again, pulling down their
tunics and smoothing their hair, conscious of gaiters,
neatly-fitting or otherwise. Young cavalrymen were
numerous, their superior social connections demon-
strated by well-cut riding boots and predominantly
small heads. Nice-looking young chaps with nice
manners, they sipped cocktails and stood up respect-
fully when a Cavalry Brigadier strode past them. The
Cavalry were still waiting for their chance on the

Western Front----Would they ever get it, I wondered.

Personally, I thought it would be a pity if they did,
for I disliked the idea of a lot of good horses being
killed and wounded, and I had always been soft-
hearted about horses. By the time I'd finished my