DRIVER ROBERT BROWN
TO THE GREAT ARMY OF THOSE WHO HAVE PASSED DOWN THE LONG VALE, UNSUNG, UNHONOURED
Four or five years ago, in the dim, hazy time when Europe lay at peace, there arrived at the station in England where I was fortunate enough to be serving a batch of eight recruits. They were very raw and very untrained, and it was the doubtful pleasure of the unit in which I was, to undertake periodically the training of such batches in order to relieve a somewhat overtaxed depôt elsewhere. This batch—like unto other similar batches—aspired to become drivers in His Majesty’s Corps of Royal Engineers. Occasionally their aspirations were realised—more often not, for the terms of their service were two years with the colours and ten with the reserve, and at the end of two years the average man may just about be considered
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