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Their discipline in battle was the best. They wanted to get to a place
ahead. They would fight the devils of hell to get there.
The New-Zealanders followed them, with rosy cheeks like English boys
of Kent, and more gentle manners than the other "Anzacs," and the same
courage. They went far, too, and set the pace awhile in the last lap.
But that, in the summer of '16, was far away.
In those last days of June, before the big battles began, the
countryside of the Somme valley was filled with splendor. The mustard
seed had spread a yellow carpet in many meadows so that they were
Fields of the Cloth of Gold, and clumps of red clover grew like
flowers of blood. The hedges about the villages of Picardy were white
with elderflower and drenched with scent. It was haymaking time and
French women and children were tossing the hay on wooden pitchforks
during hot days which came between heavy rains. Our men were marching
through that beauty, and were conscious of it, I think, and glad of
life.


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