The First Canadians in France. F. McKelvey Bell

tents!"

      The orange-eating "fatigue," looking very hot and fatigued indeed, fell reluctantly to work.

      Sergeant Honk was not beautiful to look upon—his best friends conceded this. His nose was bent and red. He had one fixed and one revolving eye, and when the former had transfixed you, the latter wandered aimlessly about, seeking I know not what. He was so knock-kneed that his feet could never meet. I think it was the sergeant-major in Punch who complained that "it was impossible to make him look 'smart,' for when his knees stood at attention his feet would stand at ease."

      To see Honk salute with one stiff hand pointing heavenward and his unruly feet ten inches apart has been known to bring a wan sweet smile to the face of blasé generals; but subalterns, more prone to mirth, have sometimes laughed outright.

      Some one had thrown a banana peel upon the station platform. Honk stepped backward upon its slippery face. He didn't fall, but his queer legs opened and shut with a scissor-like snap that wrenched his dignity in twain.

      "Fruit's the curse of the army," he muttered.

      Somehow we got aboard at last—officers, non-commissioned officers and men. The crowd cheered a lusty farewell, and amidst much waving of pocket handkerchiefs and hats, Plymouth faded away, and the second stage of our journey began.

      It was midnight when we pulled into Lavington station. There is no village there—merely a tavern of doubtful mien. Rain was falling in a steady drizzle as we emerged upon the platform and stood shivering in the bleak east wind. The transport officer, who had been awaiting our arrival, approached the colonel and saluted.

      "Rather a nasty night, sir," he observed courteously.

      "Bad night for a march," the colonel replied. "My men are tired, too. Hope we haven't got far to go?"

      "Not very, sir; a matter of eight or nine miles only."

      The colonel glanced at him sharply, thinking the information was given in satirical vein; but the Englishman's face was inscrutable.

      "Nine miles!" he exclaimed. "That may be an easy march for seasoned troops, but my men have been three weeks on shipboard."

      "Sorry, sir, but that's the shortest route."

      "Thanks; we'll camp right here." The colonel was emphatic.

      "In the rain?" the Englishman inquired in some surprise.

      "Yes. What of it?"

      "Nothing, sir; but it seems unusual, that's all."

      "We're unusual people," the colonel answered dryly. "Quartermaster, get out the rubber sheets and blankets. The station platform will be our bed."

      The transport officer saluted and retired.

      The adjutant was weary and sleepy. He had vainly tried a stimulating Scotch or two to rouse his lagging spirit.

      "Fall in, men," he shouted. "'Shun! Right dress. Quartermaster, issue the blankets, please."

      The quartermaster was disposed to argue the point. The blankets would all be wet and muddy, and damaged with coal cinders; but he was finally overruled.

      The adjutant turned to look at the men. Their line had wabbled and showed strange gyrations.

      "Will you men stand in line?" he cried. "How do any of you ever expect to succeed in life if you can't learn to stand in a straight line?" With which unanswerable argument and much pleased with his midnight philosophy, he relapsed into his customary genial smile.

      At last the blankets were distributed, and in an hour the station platform and bridge over the tracks looked like the deck of an emigrant steamer. Wherever the eye reached, the dimly-lighted platform showed rows of sleeping men, rolled up and looking very like sacks of potatoes lying together.

      Five of us officers turned into the expressman's hut, and in the dark fell into whatever corner was available. Reggy and I occupied either side of an unlighted stove, and throughout the jumpy watches of the night bruised our shins against its inhospitable legs.

      Dawn was breaking, and breaking darkly, too, as the dim shadow of the expressman came stumbling across the platform through rows of growling men. At last he reached his office, and, all unconscious of our presence, stepped within. He stepped upon the sleeping form of the adjutant, and the form emitted a mighty roar. The expressman staggered back in amazement, giving vent to this weird epigram:

      "Every bloomin' 'ole a sleepin' 'ole!"

      "You'll 'ave to get up," he cried indignantly when he had recovered from his astonishment. "This ain't a bloomin' boardin'-'ouse!"

      "Could you return in half an hour?" Reggy queried in drowsy tones, but without opening his eyes.

      "No. I couldn't return in 'alf an hour," he mocked peevishly.

      "Run away like a good fellow, and bring some shaving water—-have it hot!" Reggy commanded.

      "Oh, I'll make it 'ot for you all right, if you don't let me into my office," he retorted angrily.

      Might is not always right, so we reluctantly rose. We had had three hours of fitful sleep—not too much for our first night's soldiering. Hot coffee, cheese and biscuits were soon served by our cooks, and we prepared for our first march on English sod.

      No one who made that march from Lavington to West Down North will ever forget it. Napoleon's march to Moscow was mere child's play compared with it. Reggy said both his corns were shrieking for Blue Jays and when Bill Barker removed his socks (skin and all) it marked an epoch in his life, for both his feet were clean.

      Every fifteen minutes it rained. At first we thought this mere playfulness on the part of the weather; but when it kept right on for weeks on end, we knew it to be distemper. By day it was a steady drizzle, but at night the weather did its proudest feats. Sometimes it was a cloudburst; anon an ordinary shower that splashed in angry little squirts through the canvas, and fell upon our beds.

      And the mud! We stood in mud. We walked in mud. We slept in mud. The sky looked muddy, too. Once, and only once, the moon peeped out—it had splashes of mud on its face!

      Reggy loved sleep. It was his one passion. Not the sweet beauty sleep of youth, but the deep snoring slumber of the full-blown man. But, oh, those cruel "Orderly Officer" days, when one must rise at dawn! Reggy thought so, too.

      Six a.m. The bugle blew "Parade." Reggy arose. I opened one eye in time to see a bedraggled figure in blue pyjamas stagger across the sloppy floor. His eyes were heavy with sleep, and his wetted forelock fell in a Napoleonic curve. The murky dawn was breaking.

      Outside the tent we could hear the sergeant-major's rubber boots flop, flop, across the muddy road.

      "Fall in, men! Fall in!" His tones, diluted with the rain, came filtering through the tent. It was inspection hour.

      Reggy fumbled at the flap of the tent, untied the cord, and through the hole thus made thrust his sleep-laden head.

      "Parade, 'shun!" shouted the sergeant-major (a sly bit of satire on his part). The warning wasn't needed. The sight of Reggy's dishevelled countenance was enough; Bill Barker himself "shunned." Somewhere from the depths of Reggy's head a sleepy muffled voice emitted this succinct command:

      "Serg'nt-major; dish-mish th' parade."

      "Right turn! Dis-miss!" With a shout of joy the boys scampered off to their tents.

      A moment later Reggy tumbled into bed again, and soon was fast asleep. And within two hours, at breakfast, he was saying, with virtuous resignation: "How I envied you lucky devils sleeping-in this morning! I was up at six o'clock inspecting the parade." And the halo of near-truth hovered gently about his head.

      Thus passed three weeks of rain and mud. In spite of ourselves we had begun to look like soldiers. How we ever developed into the finest hospital unit in the forces none of us to this day knows—and none but ourselves suspects it yet. We had, and have still, one outstanding feature—a sort of native modesty. Whatever in this chronicle savours of egotism