It took three days to concentrate the four brigades of Southdown Artillery at Hangest.
Concentration concluded, there followed a period of desultory “training”—taken with immense and harassing seriousness by Lt.-Colonel Revelsworth, a dapper arrogant-looking man of forty-five, very different from the Weasel; slightly less seriously by his subordinates.
Fortunately, the Anglo-Saxon is not imaginative. Neither officers nor men of “Beer” Battery bothered as they went about their lawful (or unlawful) business, to consider the near future. To be out of action, away from the sound of guns, sufficed them.
Thus they waited—five days—six days—a week and a week-end; till there came, one warm summer’s evening while they sat at poker, a very affairé Purves, second star newly on his sleeve, with orders that, “The Colonel would like to see all available officers at Headquarters immediately.”
“Confound it,” said Lodden. “I’ve never been in such amazing luck.”
“Never bring messages like that yourself,” whispered Peter to Purves as they strolled across the cobbled courtyard to Headquarters. “What’s it all about?”
“Only a pi-jaw. We’re going into action tomorrow.”
And a “pi-jaw,” as Purves irreverently described it, they got.
Listening to it, Peter began to think of the Brigade in its Brighton days. So many of the faces about him were new since then: yet the Brigade, the Fourth Southdown Brigade, R.F.A.—the “Virgin-bosom” Brigade as Stark used to call them every time his meticulous recommendations for honours were struck out by the bemedalled Staff—still lived. The thing he, Peter, had helped to make, went on . . . went on, and would go on, right to the finish. . . . “A long wai ter get ter Berlin!” He seemed to hear his Cockneys again,—singing.
“So you see, when we begin moving up into action tomorrow,” interrupted Revelsworth’s voice. . . .