The War Baby smiled wearily. "Let's go and see the men at drill," he
remarked. "We've got a corporal here who's A1 at instruction." As we
passed, the sentry brought his right hand smartly across the small of
the butt of his rifle, and, seeing the Major behind us, brought the
rifle to the present.

We came out on a field sprinkled with little groups of men in charge of
their N.C.O.'s. They were the "details." These were drafts for the
Front, and every regiment of the Division had sent a deputation. Two or
three hundred yards away a platoon was marching with a short quick trot,
carrying their rifles at the trail, and I knew them for Light Infantry,
for such are their prerogatives. Concerning Light Infantry much might be
written that is not to be found in the regimental records. As, for
example, the reason why the whole Army shouts "H.L.I." whenever the ball
is kicked into touch; also why the Oxford L.I. always put out their
tongues when they meet the Durhams. Some day some one will write the
legendary history of the British Army, its myth, custom, and folklore,
and will explain how the Welsh Fusiliers got their black "flash" (with a
digression on the natural history of antimacassars), why the 7th Hussars
are called the "White Shirts," why the old 95th will despitefully use
you if you cry, "Who stole the grog?" and what happens on Albuera day in
the mess of the Die Hards. But that is by the way.

The drafts at No. 19, having done a route march the day before, had been
turned out this morning to do a little musketry drill by way of keeping
them fit. A platoon lay flat on their stomachs in the long grass, the
burnished nails on the soles of their boots twinkling in the sun like
miniature heliographs. From all quarters of the field sharp words of
command rang out like pistol shots. "Three hundred. Five rounds. Fire."
As the men obeyed the sergeant's word of command, the air resounded with