"You'd better be careful with that little lot," the N.C.O. advised.
"Why?" with a gasp.
"Becos (drily) it's full of bombs." The hair crinkled upwards into the lad's steel helmet and he carried that box to its destination with all the lavish care and tenderness of a mother for her babe. Placing it gingerly down and unable to overcome the strong trait of inquisitiveness latent in all soldiers, he forced up the lid and peeped upon—two heavy sets of large transport waggon implements!
The march from Equancourt up to the "jumping off" point of the advance was neither so long nor arduous as on the two previous nights. As mile after mile was reeled off the incessant thunder of guns ten or twelve miles northward became more and more distinct, but on the sector of the line towards which the miles of marching columns were heading not a sound disturbed the night from hour to hour. The rumble of that distant artillery mingled with the jingle of unseen harness and the pad, pad, of countless feet. Hazy starlight faintly lit up row upon row of men, glinted dimly on brighter portions of the equipment and distinctly silhouetted each breath on the damp night air. A tense, silent march: nerves highly strung. A march to live long in memory.
Within five minutes of leaving the road for the downs there enveloped you that indefinable sense that a fighting area has been entered. Nothing could be seen, heard or felt, yet the proximity of trenches and wire was frequently "scented," like the first approaches of a sea after a long march inland.
Brigade Headquarters marched on—and with it the Duo—to where a long line of duck-boards led into a line of wide trenches. The Ten Hundred came to a halt in the immediate rear, received the order to lie down—and waited.
A night of wondrous calm and quiet. Within one mile of a watchful foe and not a sound. Once or twice a machine gun awoke wild echoes with brief spluttering bursts ... in silence more acute for the interruption hearts beat faster, hands tightened involuntarily about rifles.
Thus the young, full-blooded Normans awaited their first fray. Even as the mighty Ragnar Lodbrok and his fierce men in mail launched merciless onslaught with the breaking of day, so did Sarnia's young warriors look eastward for the Dawn.