"Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred."
Suddenly he found himself alert. The men were forming into marching order, and almost unconsciously he was performing the duties allotted to him.
Bob saw that a large mass of men had gathered. Other trains had arrived before the one by which he had come, and each had brought its quota from England.
He realised, as he had never realised before, how efficiently, quietly, and at the same time wonderfully, the forces at home were working. He, like others, had read several weeks before, that something like a hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without a casualty, without a mishap. It had come to him, as it had come to us all, as a kind of surprise, that such a mass of humanity, with horses, accoutrements, and provisions, could have been sent to France with so little noise, and without the nation's knowing anything about it. Yet so it was. While we were wondering, the work was done.
But that was not all. While the country was asleep, or while it was pursuing its usual avocations, tens of thousands of men were leaving our shores, taking the places of those who had fallen or adding to the force already there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.
"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.
No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.
Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and militarism.
They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the shells as they went on their mission of death.
Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a laugh on their lips.