Peter cursed sourly.
The battalion trailed wearily on until noon, halted then, and for the greater part flung themselves down and slept on the roadside for the two hours they waited there; were roused—as many of them, that is, as would rouse, for many, having stopped the machine-like motion of marching, could not recommence it, and had to be left there—and plodded on again through the baking afternoon heat. They had marched over thirty miles that day when at last they trailed into a small town where they were told they were to be billeted for the night. Other troops, almost as worn as themselves, were to take over the duties of rear-guard next day, but although that was good enough news it was nothing to the fact that to-night, now, the battalion was to halt and lie down and take their fill—if the Huns let them—of sleep.
They were halted in the main square and waited there for what seemed to the tired men an interminable time.
‘Findin’ billets,’ said Jacko. ‘Wish they’d hurry up about it.’
‘Seems to me there’s something more than billets in the wind,’ said Peter suspiciously. ‘Wot’s all the officers confabbin’ about, an’ wot’s that tamasha over there wi’ them Staff officers an’ the C.O.?’
The tamasha broke up, and the C.O. tramped back to the group of his officers, and after a short parley they saluted him and walked over to the battalion.
‘Fall in,’ came the order sharply. ‘Fall in there, fall in.’
Most of the men were sitting along the curb of the pavement or in the dusty road, or standing leaning on their rifles. They rose and moved heavily and stiffly, and shuffled into line.
‘Wot is it, sergeant?’ asked Jacko suspiciously. ‘Wot’s the move?’
‘We’re goin’ back,’ said the sergeant. ‘Hurry up there, you. Fall in. We’re goin’ back, an’ there’s some word of a fight.’