On the march ....We are marching as a brigade, and strict march discipline is observed... [O]ne's chief duty, as a platoon commander on the march, is to see that the men keep properly closed up, taking no more than their correct amount of road-space either way... At present we have no band: not only the bandsmen but the instruments were lost on July 1st. However, I hear the colonel is keen to raise something in the drum-and-fife line, and the men will welcome it, first with jeers and then with cheers, like every innovation. They whistle and sing anything but Tipperary, which, I suppose, died out here at Mons. Every now and then a strange song crops up with a local dialect, sometimes bawdy in its details; but that is by way of variety, when the platoon humorist happens to feel fresh. Our regular repertory is made up of last year’s musical comedy with I want to go Home, The Long Trail, Tennessee, and hymn-tune parodies. They love the “sob stuff,” and roar out those inexplicable lines, And roses round the door Make me love mother more (they sing “makes”) with fervent gusto. When singing dies down and there’s no more whistling, one knows they are tired or coming under fire. << less