He had two sides to his head, that bearded,
burned, slow-spoken officer, met and parted with in an hour.
The day closed--(after an amazing interlude in the chateau of
a dream, which was all glassy ponds, stately trees, and vistas
of white and gold saloons. The proprietor was somebody's
chauffeur at the front, and we drank to his excellent health)
--at a little village in a twilight full of the petrol of many
cars and the wholesome flavour of healthy troops. There is no
better guide to camp than one's own thoughtful nose; and
though I poked mine everywhere, in no place then or later did
it strike that vile betraying taint of underfed, unclean men.
And the same with the horses.
THE LINE THAT NEVER SLEEPS
It is difficult to keep an edge after hours of fresh air and
experiences; so one does not get the most from the most
interesting part of the day--the dinner with the local
headquarters. Here the professionals meet--the Line, the
Gunners, the Intelligence with stupefying photo-plans of the
enemy's trenches; the Supply; the Staff, who collect and note
all things, and are very properly chaffed; and, be sure, the
Interpreter, who, by force of questioning prisoners, naturally
develops into a Sadducee. It is their little asides to each
other, the slang, and the half-words which, if one understood,
instead of blinking drowsily at one's plate, would give the
day's history in little.
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