The day of the Review was cold and bleak, with gusts of rain falling at distressingly frequent intervals. We plodded disgustedly on through Pontvallain, our only thought being to get this latest ordeal over with as soon as possible. Each man carried a two-blanket pack, his steel helmet and gas-mask, and a canteen full of water. In addition to this and by way of consolation, inside each pack was tucked a bacon sandwich, supposed to nourish and cheer the tired soldier through the long hours of waiting.

                After we had toiled over the hard road for what seemed to be an interminable length of time, through the intermittent but discouraging drizzle, the column turned off the main road and wound along through dense pine wood to emerge at last upon a broad open field, fairly level, and covered with short, crisp turf, the Ecommoy rifle range.

                Already the field was partially covered by steel-helmeted troops, the brilliant red guidons marking the artillery regiments, while the sombre gleam of the blued bayonets indicated the infantry and the ammunition trains. Across this wide space we marched, now stepping across a tiny brook, now leaping a shallow trench, until we reached the extreme left of the field where we faced about in column of platoons and settled ourselves for the long wait which was bound to come. All through the long hours, heavy masses of fresh troops poured onto the field, forming in platoon columns on our right, a sombre, shifting mass, unrelieved by any splash of brilliance save where the instruments of the massed bands of the Division twinkled dimly in the dull noontime light.

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