THE DEPARTURE.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 177, 26 May 1916, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE DEPARTURE.

At midday on that bright November Sabath morning the long-expected orders arrived. Tim draft now knew tor certain the chance had come, the chance for which they had trained and hoped so many months. The men cheered and cheered again. Strange, was :t not, that they should look upon the Front as the Israelites must have looked upon the Promised Land. It was no land flowing with milk and honey for which they were bound; it was no barren dessert they were leaving. They were exchanging the rough comfort of a soldiers' life at home for the sodden dreariness of a trenched Flanders, the light of a carefree existence for the valley of the shadow of death. And they nkow it; that is the wonderful part of it. Had they not read descriptions and studied pictures of what w;Ts before them ? They had been told a thousand times it :s hell "over there." Most recently of all they had met former comrades of thenown, men who had trained alongside them, now returned wounded from the Front, with ghastly tales of what they had seen. Nothing made the slightest difference. " I have no doub, sir, they would say, "that before we are long out we shall be wishing we were at home. We know it isn't r. picnic; but it is what we joined for, and we are going to see it through." Midnight had passed before they formed up to march to the station. It was a keen, frosty night, and the moon lit up their faces as they fell in quietly, but with a sort of suppressed murmur of excitement. Down the long, silent country road they marched, humming the old songs, to whose cheery strains we had tramped so many miles together. And we who were to remain behind thought of the old times, with a great joy that it had been given cj us to know- these men. and with a great grief that these times could never be again. Soon we reached the town, where the only sound that greeted us was the hollow echo of our own footsteps. All else was deathly still. The moonlight was casting deep shadows from the high, old-fashioned houses, till the narrow stercts seemed rather the dream pictures of a past century than the inhabited homes of living men. Above us loomed tne massive pile of the old Cathedral, its twin towers gleaming in the moonlight. It was as if the Almighty were raising his hand in benediction over these men as they marched to risk their lives in His cause. At the station there was a weary wait'in the chill darkness. The moonlight gave place to drifting clouds, and as dawn approached the frost changed to a raw, chilling air. At last the lights ol' the engine appealed in the distance. Some voice broke into "Auld Lang Syne," and in a twinkling the whole draft were pouring forth their souls in this heart-searching song of our nation. Silently they entwined; the final handshakes v.ore given and taken: the engine whistled shrilly, and the train glided from the station. There

was a last shout of "Three cheers for the old Battalion," and we on the platform thought of the days that are past, and of the great soul, now departed, that had moulded and fashioned us all into loyalty to our Battalion and to one another. The last lights of the train had disappeared found the curve, and we were leaving the station, when from a dark corner of the subway there came the sound of a stilled sob. Little Wilson, the mascot of the company, whom a poisoned foot had kept back, had limped painfully down to the station to bid his old comrade good-bye. "Xo sir," he replied, in answer to my query; "it's no' the foot and it's no' the Front; it's seein' the boys goin' away, and me no' with them." Where our men were, there were our hearts also. It was a sad, grey dawn that broke upon us as we wandered back to the deserted .-'.amp. A. F. H.