I
THE MEN AT WORK
The ore, the furnace and the hammer are all that is needed for a sword.—Native proverb.
This was a cantonment one had never seen before, and the grey-haired military policeman could give no help.
‘My experience,’ he spoke detachedly, ‘is that you’ll find everything everywhere. Is it any particular corps you’re looking for?’
‘Not in the least,’ I said.
‘Then you’re all right. You can’t miss getting something.’ He pointed generally to the North Camp. ‘It’s like floods in a town, isn’t it?’
He had hit the just word. All known marks in the place were submerged by troops. Parade-grounds to their utmost limits were crowded with them; rises and sky-lines were furred with them, and the length of the roads heaved and rippled like bicycle-chains with blocks of men on the move.
The voice of a sergeant in the torment reserved for sergeants at roll-call boomed across a bunker. He was calling over recruits to a specialist corps.
‘But I’ve called you once!’ he snapped at a man in leggings.