The silence is full of mystery, the gigantic
mass, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, a
dumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternal
sorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marching
thus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster is
full of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious to
danger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal,
and certain of its mission.
A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven in
the evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet,
water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the town
out into the open country. The night varied in temper--sometimes it
rained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; and
once we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the whole
county--the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snug
farmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-clad
soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.
We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along the
sloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built.
Giggling girls watched us depart--they are ever there when the
soldiers are on the move--old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck as
we passed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the left
or right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we were
marching at attention, with arms at the trail.
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