Peter Jameson was not a man who gave either friendship or admiration lightly. His feelings for Colonel Stark had hitherto been tolerant rather than friendly, critical rather than admiring. The little red man had stood to his Adjutant for a type: the “Regular soldier”—a person of limited outlook, good at his job (and why not, after twenty years of it?), irascible, rather inclined to bother himself over-much with detail, taking the simple business of commanding an Artillery Brigade as seriously as if it had been the management of a complicated commercial concern....

But on the night of September the 25th, even that stickler for organization and efficiency, P.J., had to acknowledge himself the Weasel’s inferior.

The problem confronting the commander of the 4th Southdown Brigade comprised, briefly, the assembling of six hundred men, five hundred horses, and innumerable vehicles, scattered over at least seven miles of ground, the moving of them forward—provisioned, munitioned, and if possible without casualties—over unexplored country to the support of an infantry whose whereabouts had not been ascertained. And all this had to be accomplished through officers mostly ignorant of active service, by weary men, under incessant shell-fire and in pitch darkness. Moreover—as the only definite information consisted of “You will report yourself at once for orders to G.O.C. 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade” at farm three miles away—arrangements to meet all contingencies had to be made instanter.

But Weasel Stark forgot nothing, left nothing to chance. Within three minutes of receiving the first telephone-call, a cyclist was on his way back to the five-mile-distant waggon-lines, another to the Ammunition Column; Lodden and Torrington had left their Batteries for Headquarters, Purves was getting communication (through three different field-exchanges) with the forward batteries in Vermelles, the Doctor was packing up his instruments, Mr. Black serving out a second “tea” to H.Q. Staff, Gunner Horne preparing dinner for its officers.... Since tired men may fight, but hungry men, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, won’t.

By the time D.R.L.S.^[12] arrived with confirmation of the vague instructions, Bombardier Pitman and his typewriter were installed in the mess-room; and Peter, map in front of him, was dictating exact orders—“A and B would move by such and such a road, C and D would fall in in rear of them at such and such a point; Ammunition sections must keep touch by this means; Ration orderlies by that: the Brigade would halt here; a mounted officer from each battery await the Colonel there....”

And all the time Stark was making certain, from Lodden, from Torrington, from Mr. Black, from Purves and the Doctor, by telephone messages and cyclists and mounted orderlies, about fodder and maps and a new gun for A Battery, and telephone-wire, and sand-bags and spare springs, and the million details which the Commander of a seasoned unit may leave to his subordinates but the Colonel of a new Brigade dare not abandon to chance.

Three quarters of a hour after the Weasel had said, “Gentlemen, we’re for it this time,” he and Peter—warmed by a square meal and a glass of port, their preliminary work accomplished, heavy belts bulging their aproned hunting-mackintoshes—climbed to horse in the rain, and set off, followed by their grooms, towards the shell-bursts over Vermelles.

Passing the gun-pits, Peter could see hurricane-lamps moving, figures unpiling sand bags from the blocked entrances. ...