190 years of The Spectator
11 December 1915
The road was full of troops. Columns of infantry slogged along at the side. Guns and ammunition-wagons thundered down the paved centre. Motor despatch riders flew past with fresh orders for those in rear. The men sucked their pebbles in grim silence. It was no time for grumbling. This meant business. They forgot their fatigue, their thirst, their hunger. Their minds were full of the folk at home whom they might not see again, and of the struggle that lay before them. So they marched, silently, and with frequent halts, most of the morning. At length they left the road, and took to the fields. They were going back whence they had come,
by a circuitous route.
Shrapnel burst overhead. As they neared the firing line they met streams of wounded returning from the scene of action.
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