‘You can’t tell,’ said Shem, indifferently. ‘You’ve just got to chance it.’

They were moving along at a fair pace, and were soon clear of trenches. The mud, along the level by the dump, was greasy, and slowed them down a bit; but on reaching the road it was easier going. Bourne asked the control where the relay-post was; and they turned into the second yard on the right. There was not a sign of life there, and the houses, on that side of the street, had suffered more severely than on the other; little of them was left. Most of the buildings abutting on the street were byres and stables, at least at that end of the town. The houses stood farther back, just on the crest of the slope. Not seeing anyone, they shouted, and from a stable came a reply, and a great wooden door opened. They found three Gordons there, very far from gay. They were, however, very decent civil men, and they looked as though they had earned a rest. Their faces had forgotten, at least for the time being, how to smile. They looked at the colours sewn on their successors’ haversacks and sleeves, which they knew meant business.

‘We’ve come to take over from you,’ said Bourne.

‘Thought you weren’t comin’. Saw some o’ oor chaps gae by….’

‘Oh, the relief isn’t complete yet,’ said Bourne, cheerfully. ‘They took us up the trenches and then sent us back. If they can do anything backwards in the army, they will, you know. It’s the tradition of the service. What’s it like, here?’

‘Oh, it’s cushy enough,’ answered the Gordon, in a resigned voice.

‘I had a bet with myself, you would say that,’ said Bourne.

They looked at him curiously, perplexed by his manner, as they completed the business of putting their equipment together, fastening on their water-bottles, haversacks, and entrenching-tools. Their packs they carried slung, that is, without fastening them to their cross-straps, a practice which is irregular. On active service, however, the authorities allowed the men to use a little intelligence with regard to minor details, except on great occasions. At last, taking up their rifles, they moved to the door.

‘Gude day t’ ye, an’ gude luck, chums,’ they said as they went out.

‘Good luck,’ answered their successors, in more matter-of-fact tones. Bourne looked after them a little wistfully. He didn’t grudge them the relief. He wondered when they would all be turning their backs on this desolation.

‘I’m goin’ to ’ave a peek round the village,’ said Martlow. ‘You won’t want me, there’ll be nothin’ doin’ yet awhile.’

‘All right,’ said Bourne; ‘don’t go far away, and don’t be long.’

He returned in about twenty minutes with all kinds of luxuries: tea mixed with sugar, four tins of bully-beef, a tin of Maconachie, and tins of pork and beans, the kind in which there was never any pork.

‘I scrounged them from some R.E.’s,’ he said, with a sober pride. ‘They’re movin’ out, an’ ’ave a lot o’ stuff they don’t want to carry. I could ’ave got more if I’d wanted. They’re that glad to be goin’ they’d give you all they’ve got. So it don’t matter if we don’t get no rations till night.’