At 7.10 on a foggy February morning Victoria Station looked a place of mystery within which a mighty work was going forward. Electric lights still shone in the gloom, and whereas innumerable units of life ran this way and that like ants disturbed, an equal number stood about apparently indifferent and unperturbed. Tommies who had found a place against a wall or seat deposited rifle and pack close by, lit a pipe, and let the world go by, content that when the officers’ leave train had gone someone, or some Providence, would round them up as well. But, for the rest, porters, male and female, rushed up with baggage; trunks were pushed through the crowd with the usual objurgations; subalterns, mostly loud and merry, greeted each other or the officials, or, more subdued, moved purposefully through the crowd with their women-folk, intent on finding a quieter place farther up the platforms.

There was no mistaking the leave platform or the time of the train, for a great notice drew one’s attention to it. Once there, the Army took a man in hand. Peter was entirely new to the process, but he speedily discovered that his fear of not knowing what to do or where to go, which had induced him (among other reasons) to say good-bye at home and come alone to the station, was unfounded. Red-caps passed him on respectfully but purposefully to officials, who looked at this paper and that, and finally sent him up to an officer who sat at a little table with papers before him to write down the name, rank, unit, and destination of each individual destined that very morning to leave for the Army in France.

Peter at last, then, was free to walk up the platform, and seek the rest of his luggage that had come on from the hotel with the porter. He was free, that is, if one disregarded the kit hung about his person, or which, despite King’s Regulations, he carried in his hands. But free or not, he could not find his luggage. At 7.30 it struck him that at least he had better find his seat. He therefore entered a corridor and began pilgrimage. It was seemingly hopeless. The seats were filled with coats or sticks or papers; every type of officer was engaged in bestowing himself and his goods; and the general atmosphere struck him as being precisely that which one experiences as a fresher when one first enters hall for dinner at the ’Varsity. The comparison was very close. First-year men that is to say, junior officers returning from their first leave were the most encumbered, self-possessed, and asserting; those of the second year, so to say, usually got a corner-seat and looked out of window; while here and there a senior officer, or a subaltern with a senior’s face, selected a place, arranged his few possessions, and got out a paper, not in the Oxford manner, as if he owned the place, but in the Cambridge, as if he didn’t care a damn who did.

Peter made a horrible hash of it. He tried to find a seat with all his goods in his hands, not realising that they might have been deposited anywhere in the train, and found when it had started, since, owing to a particular dispensation of the high gods, everything that passed the barrier for France got there. He made a dive for one place and sat in it, never noting a thin stick in the corner, and he cleared out with enormous apologies when a perfectly groomed Major with an exceedingly pleasant manner mentioned that it was his seat, and carefully put the stick elsewhere as soon as Peter had gone. Finally, at the end of a carriage, he descried a small door half open, and inside what looked like an empty seat. He pulled it open, and discovered a small, select compartment with a centre table and three men about it, all making themselves very comfortable.

“I beg your pardon,” said Peter, “but is there a place vacant for one?”

The three eyed him stonily, and he knew instinctively that he was again a fresher calling on the second year. One, a Captain, raised his head to look at him better. He was a man of light hair and blue, alert eyes, wearing a cap that, while not looking dissipated, somehow conveyed the impression that its owner knew all about things a cap, too, that carried the Springbok device. The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded Peter and took him all in: his vast expanse of collar, the wide black edging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons and stars. Then he lied remorselessly:

“Sorry, padre; we’re full up.”

Peter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a shrill whistle was excruciatingly blown. He found himself in the very cab of the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be seen a sudden bustle. Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less secluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats behind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and thanks to those high gods Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment. In sixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case, and a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut again; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.

It was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage. He was conscious of wanting a seat and a breakfast; he was also conscious of wanting to look at the station he was leaving, which he dimly felt he might never see again; and he was, above all, conscious that he looked a fool and would like not to. In such a turmoil he lugged at the gladstone and got it into a corner, and then turned to the window in the cleared space with a determination. In turning he caught the Captain’s face stuck round the little door. It was withdrawn at once, but came out again, and he heard for the second time the unfamiliar title:

“Say, padre; come in here. There’s room after all.”

Peter felt cheered. He staggered to the door, and found the others busy making room. A subaltern of the A.S.C. gripped his small attache case and swung it up on to the rack. The South African pulled a British warm off the vacant seat and reached out for the suit-case. And the third man, with the rank of a Major and the badge of a bursting bomb, struck a match and paused as he lit a cigarette to jerk out:

“Damned full train! We ought to have missed it, Donovan.”

“It’s a good stunt that, if too many blighters don’t try it on,” observed the subaltern, reaching for Peter’s warm. “But they did my last leave, and I got the devil of a choking off from the brass-hat in charge. It’s the Staff train, and they only take Prime Ministers, journalists, and trade-union officials in addition. How’s that, padre?”

“Thanks,” said Peter, subsiding. “It’s jolly good of you to take me in. I thought I’d got to stand from here to Folkestone.”

H.P. Jenks, Second-Lieutenant A.S.C., regarded him seriously. “It couldn’t be done, padre,” he said, “not at this hour of the morning. I left Ealing about midnight more or less, got sandwiched in the Metro with a Brigadier-General and his blooming wife and daughters, and had to wait God knows how long for the R.T.O. If I couldn’t get a seat and a break after that, I’d be a casualty, sure thing.”

“It’s your own fault for going home last night,” observed the Major judiciously. (Peter noticed that he was little older than Jenks on inspection.) “Gad, Donovan, you should have been with us at the Adelphi! It was some do, I can tell you. And afterwards...”

“Shut up, Major!” cut in Jenks. “Remember the padre.”

“Oh, he’s broad-minded I know, aren’t you, padre? By the way, did you ever meet old Drennan who was up near Poperinghe with the Canadians? He was a sport, I can tell you. Mind you, a real good chap at his job, but a white man. Pluck! By jove! I don’t think that chap had nerves. I saw him one day when they were dropping heavy stuff on the station, and he was getting some casualties out of a Red Cross train. A shell burst just down the embankment, and his two orderlies ducked for it under the carriage, but old Drennan never turned a hair. ‘Better have a fag,’ he said to the Scottie he was helping. ’It’s no use letting Fritz put one off one’s smoke.’”

Peter said he had not met him, but could not think of anything else to say at the moment, except that he was just going out for the first time.

“You don’t say?” said Donovan dryly.

“Wish I was!” ejaculated Jenks.

“Good chap,” replied the Major. “Pity more of your sort don’t come over. When I was up at Loos, September last year, we didn’t see a padre in three months. Then they put on a little chap forget his name who used to bike over when we were in rest billets. But he wasn’t much use.”

“I was in hospital seven weeks and never saw one,” said Jenks.

“Good heavens!” said Graham. “But I’ve been trying to get out for all these years, and I was always told that every billet was taken and that there were hundreds on the waiting list. Last December the Chaplain-General himself showed me a list of over two hundred names.”

“Don’t know where they get to, then, do you, Bevan?” asked Jenks.

“No,” said the Major, “unless they keep ’em at the base.”

“Plenty down at Rouen, anyway,” said Donovan. “A sporting little blighter I met at the Brasserie Opera told me he hadn’t anything to do, anyway.”

“I shall be a padre in the next war,” said Jenks, stretching out his legs. “A parade on Sunday, and you’re finished for the week. No orderly dog, no night work, and plenty of time for your meals. Padres can always get leave too, and they always come and go by Paris.”

Donovan laughed, and glanced sideways at Peter. “Stow it, Jenks,” he said. “Where you for, padre?” he asked.

“I’ve got to report at Rouen,” said Peter. “I was wondering if you were there.”

“No such luck now,” returned the other. “But it’s a jolly place. Jenko’s there. Get him to take you out to Duclair. You can get roast duck at a pub there that melts in your mouth. And what’s that little hotel near the statue of Joan of Arc, Jenks, where they still have decent wine?”

Peter was not to learn yet awhile, for at that moment the little door opened and a waiter looked in. “Breakfast, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said Jenks. “Waiter, I always bring some rations with me; I’ll just take a cup of coffee.”

The man grinned. “Right-o, sir,” he said. “Porridge, gentlemen?”

He disappeared, leaving the door open and, Donovan opening a newspaper, Graham stared out of window to wait. From the far corners came scraps of conversation, from which he gathered that Jenks and the Major were going over the doings of the night before. He caught a word or two, and stared the harder out of window.

Outside the English country was rushing by. Little villas, with back-gardens running down to the rail, would give way for a mile or two to fields, and then start afresh. The fog was thin there, and England looked extraordinarily homely and pleasant. It was the known; he was conscious of rushing at fifty miles an hour into the unknown. He turned over the scrappy conversation of the last few minutes, and found it savoured of the unknown. It was curious the difference uniform made. He felt that these men were treating him more like one of themselves than men in a railway-carriage had ever treated him before; that somehow even his badges made him welcome; and yet that, nevertheless, it was not he, Peter Graham, that they welcomed, or at least not his type. He wondered if padres in France were different from priests in England. He turned over the unknown Drennan in his mind. Was it because he was a good priest that the men liked him, or because they had discovered the man in the parson?

The waiter brought in the breakfast porridge, fish, toast, and the rest and they fell to, a running fire of comments going on all the time. Donovan had had Japanese marmalade somewhere, and thought it better than this. The Major wouldn’t touch the beastly margarine, but Jenks thought it quite as good as butter if taken with marmalade, and put it on nearly as thickly as his toast. Peter expanded in the air of camaraderie, and when he leaned back with a cigarette, tunic unbuttoned and cap tossed up on the rack, he felt as if he had been in the Army for years. He reflected how curious that was. The last two or three years or so of Boy Scouts and hospitals and extra prayer-meetings, attended by the people who attended everything else, seemed to have faded away. There was hardly a gap between that first war evening which he remembered so clearly and this. It was a common experience enough, and probably due to the fact that, whereas everything else had made little impression, he had lived for this moment and been extraordinarily impressed by that Sunday. But he realised, also, that it was due as much to his present companions. They had, seemingly, accepted him as he had never been accepted before. They asked practically no questions. So far as he could see, he made no difference to them. He felt as if he were at last part of a great brotherhood, in which, chiefly, one worried about nothing more important than Japanese marmalade and margarine.

“We’re almost there, boys,” said Bevan, peering out of window.

“Curse!” ejaculated Jenks. “I hate getting my traps together in a train, and I loathe the mob on the boat.”

“I don’t see why you should,” said Donovan. “I’m blest if I bother about anything. The R.T.O. and the red-caps do everything, and you needn’t even worry about getting a Pullman ticket this way over. Hope it’s not rough, though.” He let a window down and leaned out. “Looks all right,” he added.

Peter got up with the rest and began to hang things about him. His staringly new Sam Browne irritated him, but he forgot it as the train swung round the curve to the landing-stage.

“Get a porter and a truck, Donovan,” said the Major, who was farthest from the door.

They got out nonchalantly, and Peter lit a cigarette, while the others threw remarks at the man as to luggage. Then they all trooped off together in a crowd that consisted of every variety of rank and regiment and section of the British Empire, plus some Waacs and nurses.

The Pride of Folkestone lay alongside, and when they got there she seemed already full. The four of them got jammed at the gangway and shoved on board, handing in and receiving papers from the official at the head as they passed him. Donovan was in front, and as he stepped on deck he swung his kit-bag back to Peter, crying:

“Lay hold of that, padre, and edge across the deck. Get up ahead of the funnel that side. I’ll get chairs. Jenko, you rotter, get belts, and drop eyeing the girl!”

“Jolly nice bit of fluff,” said Jenks meditatively, staring fixedly across the deck.

“Where?” queried the Major, fumbling for his eyeglass.

“Get on there, please, gentlemen,” called a ship’s official.

“Damn it! mind my leg!”

“Cheerio, old son, here we are again!”

“I say, Tommy, did you get to the Alhambra last night, after all? What? Well, I couldn’t see you, anyhow.”

To which accompaniment, Peter pushed his way across the deck. “Sorry, padre,” said a V.A.D. who blocked the way, bending herself back to let him pass, and smiling. “Catch hold,” called out Donovan, swinging a couple of chairs at him. “No, sir, it’s not my chair” to a Colonel who was grabbing at one already set out against the rail.

The Colonel collected it and disappeared, Jenks appearing a moment later, red-faced, through the crush. “You blamed fool,” he whispered, “it’s that girl’s. I saw her put one here and edged up on it, only some fool got in my way. Still (hopefully), perhaps she’ll come back.”

Between them they got four chairs into a line and sat down, all, that is, save Jenks, who stood up, in a bland and genial way, as if to survey the crowd impartially. How impartially soon appeared. “Damn!” he exploded. “She’s met some other females, weird and woolly things, and she’s sitting down there. No, by Jove! she’s looking this way.”

He made a half-start forward, and the Major kicked his shins. “Blast!” he exploded; “why did you do that, you fool?”

“Don’t be an infant, Jenko, sit down. You can’t start a flirtation across the blooming deck. Here, padre, can’t you keep him in order?”

Peter half raised himself from his chair at this, and glanced the way the other was looking. Through the crush he saw, clearly enough for a minute, a girl of medium height in a nurse’s uniform, sideways on to him. The next second she half-turned, obviously smiling some remark to her neighbour, and he caught sight of clear brown eyes and a little fringe of dark hair on the forehead of an almost childish face. The eyes met his. And then a sailor blundered across his field of vision.

“Topping, isn’t she?” demanded Jenks, who had apparently been pulled down into his chair in the interval.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Graham, and added deliberately: “Rather ordinary, I thought.”

Jenks stared at him. “Good Lord, padre,” he said, “where are your eyes?”

Peter heard a little chuckle behind, and glanced round to see Donovan staring at him with amusement written all across his face. “You’ll do, padre,” he said, taking a pipe from his pocket and beginning to fill it. Peter smiled and leant back. Probably for the first time in five years he forgot for a moment what sort of a collar it was around his neck.

Sitting there, he began to enjoy himself. The sea glittered in the sun and the Lees stretched out opposite him across the shining gulf. Sea-birds dipped and screamed. On his left, Major Bevan was talking to a flying man, and Peter glanced up with him to see an aeroplane that came humming high up above the trees on the cliff and flew out to sea.

“Damned fine type!” said the boy, whose tunic, for all his youth, sported wings. “Fritz can’t touch it yet. Of course, he’ll copy it soon enough, or go one better, but just at present I think it’s the best out. Wish we’d got some in our circus. We’ve nothing but ...” and he trailed off into technicalities.

Peter found himself studying Donovan, who lay back beyond Jenks turning the pages of an illustrated magazine and smoking. The eyes interested him; they looked extraordinarily clear, but as if their owner kept hidden behind them a vast number of secrets as old as the universe. The face was lined good-looking, he thought, but the face of a man who was no novice in the school of life. Peter felt he liked the Captain instinctively. He carried breeding stamped on him, far more than, say, the Major with the eyeglass. Peter wondered if they would meet again.

The siren sounded, and a bustle began as people put on their life-belts. “All life-belts on, please,” said a young officer continually, who, with a brassard on his arm, was going up and down among the chairs. “Who’s that?” asked Peter, struggling with his belt.

“Some poor bloke who has been roped in for crossin’ duty,” said Jenks. “Mind my chair, padre; Bevan and I are going below for a wet. Coming, skipper?”

“Not yet,” said Donovan; “the bar’s too full at first for me. Padre and I’ll come later.”

The others stepped off across the crowded deck, and Donovan pitched his magazine into Bevan’s chair to retain it.

“You’re from South Africa?” queried Peter.

“Yes,” replied the other. “I was in German West, and came over after on my own. Joined up with the brigade here.”

“What part of Africa?” asked Peter.

“Basutoland, padre. Not a bad place in a way decent climate, topping scenery, but rather a stodgy crowd in the camps. One or two decent people, but the majority mid-Victorian, without a blessed notion except the price of mealies, who quarrel about nothing half the time, and talk tuppenny-ha’penny scandal the rest. Good Lord! I wish we had some of the perishers out here. But they know which side of the bread the butter is. Bad time for trade, they say, and every other trader has bought a car since the war. Of course, there’s something to be said for the other side, but what gets my goat is their pettiness. I’m for British East Africa after the war. There’s a chap written a novel about Basutoland called ‘The Land of To-morrow,’ but I’d call it ’The Land of the Day before Yesterday.’ I suppose some of them came over with an assortment of ideas one time, but they’ve struck no new ones since. I don’t advise you to settle in a South African dorp if you can help it, padre.”

“Don’t suppose I shall,” said Peter. “I’ve just got engaged, and my girl’s people wouldn’t let her out of England.”

“Engaged, are you? Thank your stars you aren’t married. It’s safer not to be out here.”

“Why?”

Donovan looked at him curiously. “Oh, you’ll find out fast enough, padre,” he said. “Wonder what you’ll make of it. Rum place just now, France, I can tell you. There’s the sweepings of half the world over there, and everything’s turned upside down. Fellows are out for a spree, of course, and you can’t be hard on a chap down from the line if he goes on the bust a bit. It’s human nature, and you must allow for it; don’t you think so?”

“Human nature can be controlled,” said Peter primly.

“Can it?” retorted the other. “Even the cloth doesn’t find it too easy, apparently.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Peter, and then added: “Don’t mind telling me; I really want to know.”

Donovan knocked out his pipe, and evaded. “You’ve got to be broad-minded, padre,” he said.

“Well, I am,” said Peter. “But ...”

“Come and have a drink then,” interrupted the other. “Jenko and the Major are coming back.”

“Damned poor whisky!” said the latter, catching the rail as the boat heaved a bit, “begging your pardon, padre. Better try brandy. If the war lasts much longer there’ll be no whisky worth drinking this side. I’m off it till we get to the club at Boulogne.”

Peter and Donovan went off together. It was a new experience for Peter, but he wouldn’t have owned it. They groped their way down the saloon stairs, and through a crowd to the little bar. “What’s yours?” demanded Donovan.

“Oh, I’ll take the Major’s advice,” said Peter. “Brandy-and-soda for me.”

“Soda finished, sir,” said the bar steward.

“All right: two brandies-and-water, steward,” said Donovan, and swung a revolving seat near round for Graham. As he took it, Peter noticed the man opposite. His badge was a Maltese Cross, but he wore a flannel collar and tie. Their eyes met, but the other stared a bit stonily. For the second time, Peter wished he hadn’t a clerical collar. The next he was taking the glass from the South African. “Cheerio,” said Donovan.

“Here’s to you,” said Peter, and leaned back with an assumption of ease.

He had a strange sense of unreality. No fool and no Puritan, he had naturally, however, been little in such an atmosphere since ordination. He would have had a drink in Park Lane with the utmost ease, and he would have argued, over it, that the clergy were not nearly so out of touch with men as the papers said. But down here, in the steamer’s saloon, surrounded by officers, in an atmosphere of indifference to him and his office, he felt differently. He was aware, dimly, that for the past five years situations in which he had been had been dominated by him, and that he, as a clergyman, had been continually the centre of concern. Talk, conduct, and company had been rearranged when he came in, and it had happened so often that he had ceased to be aware of it. But now he was a mere unit, of no particular importance whatever. No one dreamed of modifying himself particularly because a clergyman was present. Peter clung to the belief that it was not altogether so, but he was sufficiently conscious of it. And he was conscious of liking it, of wanting to sink back in it as a man sinks back in an easy-chair. He felt he ought not to do so, and he made a kind of mental effort to pull himself together.

Up on the deck the world was very fair. The French coast was now clearly visible, and even the houses of the town, huddled together as it seemed, but dominated by a church on the hill. Behind them, a sister ship containing Tommies ploughed steadily along, serene and graceful in the sunlight, and above an airship of silvery aluminum, bearing the tricoloured circle of the Allies, kept pace with the swift ship without an effort. Four destroyers were visible, their low, dark shapes ploughing regularly along at stated intervals, and someone said a fifth was out of sight behind. People were already beginning to take off their life-belts, and the sailors were clearing a place for the gangway. Peter found that Donovan had known what he was about, for his party would be close to the gangway without moving. He began to wonder uneasily what would be done on landing, and to hope that Donovan would be going his way. No one had said a word about it. He looked round for Jenks’ nurse, but couldn’t see her.

It was jolly entering the port. The French houses and fishing-boats looked foreign, although one could hardly say why. On the quay was a big notice: “All officers to report at once to the M.L.O.” Farther on was a board bearing the letters “R.T.O.” ... But Peter hardly liked to ask.

In fact, everything went like clockwork. He presently found himself in a queue, behind Donovan, of officers who were passing a small window like a ticket office. Arriving, he handed in papers, and was given them back with a brief “All right.” Beyond, Donovan had secured a broken-down-looking one-horse cab. “You’ll be coming to the club, padre?” he asked. “Chuck in your stuff. This chap’ll take it down and Bevan with it. Let’s walk. It isn’t far.”

Jenks elected to go with his friend the Major, and Donovan and Peter set off over the cobbles. They joined up with another small group, and for the first time Peter had to give his name as he was introduced. He forgot the others, as soon as he heard them, and they forgot his. A big Dublin Fusilier officer with a tiny moustache, that seemed ludicrous in his great face, exchanged a few sentences with him. They left the quay and crossed a wide space where a bridge debouched towards the railway-station. Donovan, who was walking ahead, passed on, but the Fusilier suggested to Peter that they might as well see the R.T.O. at once about trains. Entering the station gates, the now familiar initials appearing on a row of offices before them to the left, Peter’s companion demanded the train to Albert.

“Two-thirty a.m., change at Amiens, sir,” said a clerk in uniform within, and the Fusilier passed on.

“What time is the Rouen train?” asked Peter in his turn, and was told 9.30 p.m.

“You’re in luck, padre,” said the other. “It’s bally rotten getting in at two-thirty, and probably the beastly thing won’t go till five. Still, it might be worse. You can get on board at midnight, and with luck get to sleep. If I were you, I’d be down here early for yours crowded always, it is. Of course, you’ll dine at the club?”

Peter supposed he would.

The club entrance was full up with officers, and more and more kept pouring in. Donovan was just leaving the counter on the right with some tickets in his hand as they pushed in. “See you later,” he called out. “I’ve got to sleep here, and I want to leave my traps.”

Peter wondered where, but was too much occupied in keeping well behind the Fusilier to think much. At a kind of counter a girl in a W.A.A.C. uniform was serving out tickets of one sort and another, and presently the two of them were before her. For a few francs one got tickets for lunch, dinner, bed, a bath, and whatever else one wanted, but Peter had no French money. The Fusilier bought him the first two, however, and together they forced their way out into the great lounge. “Half an hour before lunch,” said his new companion, and then, catching sight of someone: “Hullo, Jack, you back? Never saw you on the boat. Did you ...” His voice trailed off as he crossed the room.

Peter looked around a little disconsolately. Then he made his way to a huge lounge-chair and threw himself into it.

All about him was a subdued chatter. A big fire burned in the stove, and round it was a wide semicircle of chairs. Against the wall were more, and a small table or two stood about. Nearly every chair had its occupant all sorts and conditions of officers, mostly in undress, and he noticed some fast asleep, with muddied boots. There was a look on their faces, even in sleep, and Peter guessed that some at least were down from the line on their way to a brief leave. More and more came in continuously. Stewards with drinks passed quickly in and out about them. The Fusilier and his friend were just ordering something. Peter opened his case and took out a cigarette, tapping it carefully before lighting it. He began to feel at home and lazy and comfortable, as if he had been there before.

An orderly entered with envelopes in his hand. “Lieutenant Frazer?” he called, and looked round inquiringly. There was no reply, and he turned to the next. “Captain Saunders?” Still no reply. “Lieutenant Morcombe?” Still no reply. “Lieutenant Morcombe,” he called again. Nobody took any interest, and he turned on his heel, pushed the swing-door open, and departed.

Then Donovan came in, closely followed by Bevan. Peter got up and made towards them. “Hullo!” said Bevan. “Have an appetiser, padre. Lunch will be on in twenty minutes. What’s yours, skipper?”

The three of them moved on to Peter’s chair, and Bevan dragged up another. Peter subsided, and Donovan sat on the edge. Peter pulled out his cigarette-case again, and offered it. Bevan, after one or two ineffectual attempts, got an orderly at last.

“Well, here’s fun,” he said.

“Cheerio,” said Peter. He remembered Donovan had said that in the saloon.