SOME TALK OF ALEXANDERROGER GRINSTEADTo LeahCHAPTER Ihad become such a common sight, such a part of the English rural scene, that the villagers merely gave a brief glancedown the long, steep hill and then went on with their business.Perhaps a few girls with memories thrilled, or a lonely wifesighed, but only in secret. In peaceful days, perhaps, all thesepeople had glanced in the same way at charabancs, a herd ofcows, or cyclists.It drizzled.The distant murmur grew distinctive, then definable as faintvoices raised in song . . . Singing hi, hi, yippy, ippy hi. .,5SSubdued rumbles became footsteps of marching men, dull, dragging . . . left, right. . . left, right, . . .On they came, slowly, painfully, but ever on. Now the firstsolid moving yellowish block had spaces in it, atoms, humanforms, tiny at first until steel helmets could be clearly distinguished as the haze of steam which drifted above clearedSoon it was seen that these human forms were tall and welldrilled and, in spite of the loads they bore and their fatigue, carried themselves with the grace of mannequins.Left, right left, right.In the further distance there were more blocks about to assumehuman shape, and further still mere smudges, diminishing into apoint as fine as a needle down the long, steep hillShell be wearin silk pyjamas when she comes ...In spite of individual voices that croaked like tired frogs, somehow, all together, they contrived to blend into a kind of harmony.Suddenly the singing ceased, leaving only the beat of hobnailed boots.Martin Roule perspired gently. His battledress collar, stickyand rough, filed away at a pimple, a recent and painful acquisition Curiously enough, it was not at all warm. Indeed, thesun, elusive always in December, had become such a rarity thatvarious Piggery9 intellectuals had begun to doubt its existence.To speak plainly, it was a cold, drizzling day.Sergeant Catcham, dripping and weary, but still conscious of aload of responsibility felt only by those fortunate or cunningenough to have acquired three stripes, once again rallied hisplatoon with an originality unsurpassed by any but a sergeant inthe Brigade of Guards.Left, right left, right.Gelda, with all the obstinacy of a Liverpool man, continued todo it the Liverpool way.Your army left, GeldaThe sergeant, who had been limping behind unobserved, wasnow transformed suddenly into six feet of highly critical andferocious brawn. A man out of step jarred upon him as a discorddistresses a musician. It outraged his tidy, disciplined instinct.Why do you think Im calling the time out for you? Want meto burst a lung or something?Muttering darkly that he wanted him to burst something muchless internal than a lung, Gelda shuffled into step. If Martinshonest sweat flowed gently, his own, quite as honest, gushed intorrents.Only warm, like5 he breathed, in accents which recalleddockyards and the masts of ships. Some life this is. Every timethe old tabs hit the deck they feels Hke roasted spuds bursting outof my boots.