Training was hopelessly traditional. One learned regimental history, drill, musketry and Boer War field tactics. There was emphasis on procedure, on how to conduct oneself on formal occasions. Premature loss of one's colors was inexcusable. There was very little that would keep anyone alive.

Among the correspondence forwarded through Gray's bank was an encouraging word from Zelle. Although formally neutral, it seemed that her sentiments definitely lay with the Allies ... particularly since the Huns had confiscated her luggage at the border. Every bit of clothing and all those lovely furs that Spangler had given her —all held at the border so that finally she had reached Holland with only the clothes on her back. A certain Baron Edouard van der Capellen—obviously a new friend and probably her Dutch lover— had suggested that she sue. Her solicitor, she reported, remained pessimistic. C'est la guerre . . .

After basic training Gray was given eight days of freedom to wander through London again. He frequented pubs, got drunk, and walked the streets. There were nights when he walked until dawn, as if blown by the wind. In a Lower Thames Street bar he met a young lance corporal recently back from Mons. They discussed ghosts and disturbing visions one saw under the Very lights. Next there was a girl, blonde, about thirty. She slipped out of nowhere along the riverfront to join him at the railing.

"So what are we doing here, soldier?"

He shrugged. "Thinking."

"Trying to remember or trying to forget?"

"Good question."

"Maybe I could help you make up your mind. What's your name?"

"Rudolph Spangler." He didn't smile when he said it.

He followed her back to a room in Soho with a penny notebook and a pencil stub. He sketched her on a chair by gaslight, then reclining on the unmade bed. Growing restless, she began to select her own pose: sliding a hand across her belly, caressing the nipple.

"Look, why did you pay if all you want to do is draw me?"

"Please."

"How about when you finish? Want to do it then?"

But having botched her portrait ... it looked more like someone else ... he certainly didn't deserve to sleep with her.

He left for France within the week, landing at Le Havre in the rain. The docks were fogbound and bone-cold. The roads were lined with children and prostitutes. Probably away from home for the first time in their lives, the ranks began to sing in the marshaling yard. Gray stayed in a corrugated shed, sipping whisky and tea with the officers. There were waiting trains at the terminal, but no order to board.