The Seed of Empire by Fred M. White

The word had gone round the camp, and every tent there hummed like a swarm of bees. There was no fuss or bustle or confusion, only the knowledge that the time for action had come, and that the morrow would see the Musketeers on the soil of France. It was some time before midnight when the first company marched out in the direction of Harrow station. Then another and another followed until the tents were deserted and ready for the next battalion to come along, and it was not long past 2 when the whole regiment, in four darkened trains, slid out or Waterloo station on its way to Southampton. There were many units amongst them now who had come from the dockside and the workshops on the Thames, for there had been a heavy call on the Musketeers to find officers for the new army. Bentley and Kemp might have reckoned themselves amongst them had they not set their face against all temptation. They were too keen to fight for that. They knew that promotion meant many months in some English camp whilst the rest of the battalion was upholding the honour of the Empire in the trenches.

It was a hot night, and the moon was lifting high over the waters long before Southampton was reached. With its drawn blinds and its six men crowded on either side of the carriage, the compartment in which Kemp and Bentley found themselves was horribly stifling. Here were all sorts and conditions of men from the 'Varsity type to Ginger Smith squeezed up in the corner, and making night hideous with his mouth organ. And yet they were all friends together, all on perfect equality, no man asserting his superiority. The chaff was fast and furious; it was more like a bank holiday crowd at Margate than a choice selection of the cream of England's manhood going out to face the reeking hell of war. Still, Bentley and his friend drew a breath of relief as the train pulled up in the dock siding, and it was possible to breathe the pure atmosphere again.