On the way I encountered Eric Bethune, my friend. It always thrills me, even at my sober age, to encounter Eric suddenly. I have never got over my boyish tendency to hero-worship. We shook hands.
"Come along the Green Walk with me," he said. "My car is waiting at the West Lodge; I have to fly back to my orderly room."
"We seem to be fairly for it, this time," I said, as we strode along the avenue of grass.
Eric threw up his handsome head exultantly. The sloping sunlight caught his clean-cut profile and sinewy throat.
"Yes," he said; "we're for it! The Fleet has been ordered not to disperse after Manoeuvres. The Army is mobilising. We are going to have at them at last! It's 'Der Tag,' all right! You are coming back to us, I suppose, Alan?"
"If they will have me," I said.
"Have you? They'll jump at you! They'll give you a battalion! We shall all get battalions! Brigades, perhaps!" He laughed joyfully, like a schoolboy who sees his first eleven colours ahead. "There will be promotions all round—"
"In a month or two," I said soberly, "there will be a lot more."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Eric. "We may finish Fritz off in one big battle. The German soldier is a machine: so is his officer. The whole German Army is a machine."
"A damned efficient machine, too!" I observed.