He would listen again, when the counter-march command was given. Impossible, of course. Unthinkable, unthinkable....
It seemed suddenly that the two-hour long march about the 5-mile mean circumference would take two days. The display was ridiculous and time-consuming, but he was thankful for it even as he cursed it. For he must hear the sound again. Yet if he heard it, then the spectacle must never end.
Slowly, slowly, at a measured, tireless step the Prelate General's Review marched in indefatigable tribute.
And at length, at the half-way mark, Doug raised his sword for the command, whipped it downward.
"Inner columns march to the rear!"
The relay began.
"Inner columns as assigned, to the rear—"
And the last words were magnified to the proportion of thunder, but his ears heard it only as a faraway thing. And again he heard the near-by command, again a split-second off.
"MARCH!"
This time it was unmistakable. A recently designed section or squad-leader, of course, who had not yet mastered the timing of commands to perfection. Nearby. He looked desperately into the files of marching boys at his side, now muddled as the centermost columns marched to the rear. The command would not have been relayed to the outside columns, since they were continuing their march forward. Then he must quickly search the reverse column as it shuttled its obscured way to the rear.