man in Mr. Smallwood’s platoon. It was a gamble, the chances of which were hotly debated. At the moment there were no mortars and he was given instead a light and easily manageable counterfeit of wood which was slung on the back of his haversack, relieving him of a rifle. At present it was money for old rope, but a day would come, spoken of as “When we get over 1098”; in that dire event he would be worse off than the riflemen. Two other men in the platoon had rashly put in to be antitank men; contrary to all expectations antitank rifles had suddenly arrived. One of these men had prudently gone sick on the eve of the exercise; the other went sick after it.
Water bottles were filled, haversack rations were packed in mess-tins, and, on account of Northland’s frank obduracy at Geneva, gas respirators frustrated the aim of the designers of the equipment to leave the man’s chest unencumbered. Thus they marched out and after ten minutes, at the command to march at ease, they began singing “Roll Out the Barrel,” “We’ll Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line,” and “The Quartermaster’s Store.” Presently the order came back to march tactically. They knew all about that; it meant stumbling along in the ditch; singing stopped; the man with the antitank rifle swore monotonously. Then the order came back, “Gas”; they put on their respirators and the man with the antitank rifle suffered in silence.
“Gas Clear. Don’t put the respirators back in the haversacks. Leave them out a minute to dry.” They marched eight miles or so and then turned off the main road into a lane and eventually halted. It was now eleven o’clock.
“This is the battalion assembly position,” announced Captain Mayfield. “The C.O. has just gone forward with his recce group to make his recce.”
It was as though he were announcing to a crowd of pilgrims, “This is the Vatican. The Pope has just gone into the Sistine Chapel.”
“It makes things much more interesting,” said Mr. Smallwood rather apologetically, “if you try and understand what is going on. Yes, carry on smoking.”
The company settled itself on the side of the road and began eating its haversack rations.
“I say, you know,” said Mr. Smallwood. “There’ll be a halt for dinner.”
They ate, mostly in silence.
“Soon the C.O. will send for his O group,” announced Captain Mayfield.
Presently a runner appeared, not running but walking rather slowly, and led Captain Mayfield away.
“The C.O. has sent for his O group,” said Mr. Smallwood. “Captain Brown is now in command.”
Captain Brown announced: “The C.O. has given out his orders. He is now establishing advanced Battalion H.Q. The company commanders are now making their recces. Soon they will send for their O groups.”
“Can’t think what they want us here for at all,” said the man with the antitank rifle.
Three-quarters of an hour passed and then an orderly arrived with a written message for Captain Brown. He said to the three platoon commanders: “You’re to meet the company commander at the third E in ‘Bee Garden.’ I’m bringing the company on to the B in Bee.”
Mr. Smallwood and his orderly and his batman left platoon headquarters and drifted off uncertainly into the scrub.
“Get the company fallen in, Sergeant-Major.”
Captain Brown was not quite happy about his position; they tacked along behind him across the common; several times they halted while Captain Brown worried over the map. At last he said, “This is the company assembly position. The company commander is now giving out orders to his O group.”
At this moment, just as the men were beginning to settle down, Captain Mayfield appeared. “Where the hell are those platoon commanders?” he asked. “And what is the company doing here? I said the B in Bee, this is the E in Garden.”
A discussion followed, inaudible to Alastair except for an occasional phrase, “ring contour,” “track junction” and again and again “Well, the map’s wrong.” Captain Brown seemed to get the better of the argument; at any rate Captain Mayfield went away in search of his O group and left the company in possession.
Half an hour passed. Captain Brown felt impelled to explain the delay.
“The platoon commanders are making their recces,” he said.
Presently the C.O. arrived. “Is this C Company?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what’s happening? You ought to be on the start line by now.” Then since it was clearly no use attacking Captain Brown about that, he said in a way Captain Brown had learned to dread: “I must have missed your sentries coming along. Just put me in the picture, will you, of your local defence?”
“Well, sir, we’ve just halted here…”
The C.O. led Captain Brown away.
“He’s getting a rocket,” said the antitank man. It was the first moment of satisfaction he had known that day.
Captain Brown came back looking shaken and began posting air look-outs and gas sentries with feverish activity. While he was in the middle of it the platoon orderlies came back to lead the platoons to assembly positions. Alastair advanced with the platoon another half mile. Then they halted. Mr. Smallwood appeared and collected the section-commanders round him. The C.O. was there too, listening to Mr. Smallwood’s orders. When they were finished he said, “I don’t think you mentioned the R.A.P., did you, Smallwood?”
“R.A.P. sir? No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.”
The C.O. led Mr. Smallwood out of hearing of his platoon.
“Now he’s getting a rocket,” said the antitank man with glee.
The section-commanders came back to their men. Mr. Smallwood’s orders had been full of detail; start line, zero hour, boundaries inclusive and exclusive, objectives, supporting fire. “It’s like this,” said Corporal Deacon.
