"It's an hour too early! What's the matter?"
The Corporal answered resentfully:
"Never mind what's the matter--show a leg, and get a move on!"
He passed on to the next tent and repeated his order, and then to the
next, and so on, until his voice grew faint in the distance.
I was full of vexation at being deprived of the extra hour of sleep. I
could not understand why reveillé should be so early, unless it was my
watch that was wrong.
The other men in the tent began to stir. They sat up and groaned and
yawned and stretched out their arms, or turned round impatiently and
went to sleep again. One of them looked at his wrist-watch:
"Gorblimy, 'tain't 'alf-past four--what the bleed'n' 'ell d'they want to
wake us this time of a mornin' for? Some bloody fatigue, I bet yer!"
"Wha', ain't it 'ah'-past five?"
"'Alf-past five be blowed! 'Tain't 'alf-past four!"
"Why can't they let a bloke sleep of a mornin'!--they don't want yer ter
be comfortable, that's what it is. I bet yer me bottom dollar the C.O.
don't get up at this time!--'e don't get up afore ten or eleven, you bet
yer life. 'E 'as eggs an' bacon for 'is bloody breakfast wi' a batman
ter wait on 'im an' put plenty o' bloody sugar in 'is bleed'n' tea! All
'e does is ter shout at us an' tell us orf when we comes back from work.
"Gorblimy--when's this bastard life goin' ter end! When I think o'
Sunday mornin' at 'ome wi' breakfast in bed an' the _News of the World_
wi' a decent divorce or murder, I feel fit ter cry me eyes out. Bloody
slavery, soldierin'! An' what's it all for? Nothin' at all--absolutely
nothin'! Why don't the 'eads come an' bloody well fight it out amongst
theirselves--why don't King George 'ave a go wi' Kaiser Bill? What
d'they want ter drag _us_ out 'ere for ter do their dirty work for 'em?
If I was ter 'ave a row wi' another bloke, I'd take me coat orf an' set
about 'im me bleed'n' self! I wouldn' go an' arst millions an' millions
ter die fur me! I'd fight it out meself, like a man! That's me! That's
'ow I'd do it! Act like a bleed'n' sport, I would--tell yer straight!
Gorblimy--draggin' us out 'ere inter this bloody misery--it makes me
blood boil...."
This fulmination was interrupted by shouts of "Shut up" and "'Old yer
jaw" and "Put a sock in it" and "Let's get a bit o' sleep," but there
was no chance of further sleep. The air was heavy with the rank smell of
stale tobacco. Several men lit cigarettes and the ends glowed in the
darkness, each one illuminating a face as the smoke was drawn in.
Someone lit a candle and the bright flame dazzled us at first. Another
man got up and threw immense black shadows. The recesses of the tent
were full of murky gloom.
"Have a look what the weather's like!"
I raised the flap and peered into the outer darkness. A cold gust of
wind blew in carrying several snowflakes with it.
"It's snowing!"
"Jesus Christ, another day o' misery afore us--when _will_ this life
end!"
I began to dress. I picked up my towel and soap and loosened the flap
once again. I felt I had to go out and wash, for I had not washed at all
on the previous day, fearing the dirty, freezing water and the piercing
wind. I longed to remain in the warm tent, and for a moment I wavered.
Then, with an effort of the will I suppressed the strong temptation, and
squeezing through the tent-opening, I stepped out into the oozy mud. The
black night seemed to weigh heavily on the world. Only here and there
dull glimmering blurs showed that candles were burning in the other
tents.
An icy wind was blowing round me. I was in my shirt sleeves and
regretted not having thrown my great-coat over my shoulders. The cold
made me contract my muscles and draw my breath in sharply between my
teeth. I felt the snowflakes beat gently against my face. I folded my
arms across my chest and found a little protection from the gusts that
seemed to pierce me. My left foot had sunk deeply into the slush. I
pawed the mud with my right in order to find the duckboard. I touched
the edge and stepped firmly upon it. With an effort I dragged the other
foot from the slush. It came out with a loud, sucking squelch, but I
felt it was leaving my boot behind. I let it sink back again and then
freed it with a twist of the ankle.
I could not see the duckboard in the dense gloom. I walked along it
carefully, feeling the edge from time to time. I heard a rapid step
behind me--another man was going to wash; he must have grown accustomed
to the darkness, for he walked along without hesitation. He slowed down
as he approached me. I tried to go faster, but trod on the extreme edge
of the boards. I had to stop for a moment and the man behind me became
impatient and shouted:
"Get a bloody move on, for Christ's sake. It's too cold to wait out here
in this weather."
I stood aside to let him pass. He brushed roughly by, nearly pushing me
over. I uttered a curse and stepped back with one foot--it sank deeply
into the mud. I bent sharply forward to draw it out again, there was the
beginning of a squelch and then it suddenly slid out of the boot. I
ground my teeth and took a box from my pocket and struck a match,
although my numb fingers could hardly hold it. There was a splutter and
for a moment I saw a whirl of white snowflakes, a patch of glistening
mud, and a deep, funnel-shaped hole with my boot at the bottom of it.
The match went out, but I judged the direction accurately and pulled my
boot out of the ooze. I forced my frozen foot into it and plodded on
through the darkness.
The duckboards came to an end although the ablution benches were another
seventy or eighty yards away. Our Commanding Officer was a keen
sportsman and he had stopped the laying of duckboards so that all energy
could be devoted to the construction of a boxing-ring.
My feet were so cold that the pain was almost unbearable. I was strongly
tempted to turn back, but having got so far, I resolved to go on. My
teeth began to chatter. The man who had passed by me had already reached
the ablution shed and I could see a faint gleam from his candle in the
distance, so that I did not fear to lose my way.
I reached the shed and saw him standing with bared chest and shoulders,
gasping and shivering. I picked up a zinc basin and once more stepped
into the outer gloom. The well was only a few yards off--I could just
distinguish its black mouth. I placed my basin on the edge. I grasped
the cold, wet rope and lowered the bucket into the depth. I drew it up
again and emptied it into my basin--the bits of ice floating in the
water knocked sharply against the zinc.
I carried the basin back and placed it on the bench. My fingers were so
cold that it nearly slipped from them. I plunged my hands into the water
and quickly splashed face, chest and shoulders. The water was a dirty
grey colour and full of sand and grit. I rubbed myself with my towel and
began to glow. I emptied the basin and left the shed, glad to think that
this one unpleasant duty had been performed. My face was burning.
It was still snowing and the wind was blowing hard. I trudged through
the mud and soon felt frozen through and through again. Several dark
figures went by on their way to the shed. I could now just distinguish
the duckboards and I quickly reached my tent. I lifted the flap and
stepped in. Some of the mud, with which my boots were smothered up to
the tops, splashed on to the blankets belonging to a man who lay near
the entrance. He growled incoherently at me. Most of the other men were
up.
I finished dressing and put on my great-coat. I picked up my tin plate
and mug and went out into the darkness once again. I was afraid I might
have to stand in a long queue outside the cook-house, but fortunately
only a few men were waiting before me. I joined them and we marked time
at the double in a vain attempt at stilling the intolerable pain in our
frozen feet.
About ten minutes passed and then the front of the cook-house was thrown
open. A light appeared and a voice shouted: "Breakfast up!" We raised a
feeble cheer and filed past while one of the cooks poured tea into our
mugs and placed a fragile wisp of bacon on to each plate.
I balanced my mug in one hand, fearing to spill the tea, and the plate
in the other, fearing that the wind might blow away the thin bacon
fragment. The snow fell into the mug and dissolved in the rapidly
cooling tea. It settled on the bacon which had grown quite cold.
I stepped into my tent and sat down on my ---- I cut off a piece from
the previous day's bread ration--it had been nibbled by mice overnight
and was soiled and dusty. Other men arrived, one by one. We ate our meal
in silence. It was usually so--either the conversation was violent and
rowdy or nothing was said at all.
We wiped our plates on an old sock or a rag or a piece of newspaper and
packed them into our haversacks together with our mugs and rations for
the day--a chunk of bread and a dirty piece of cheese. I tied up my
boots--the laces were covered with liquid clay--and put on my puttees
which were hard and stiff with caked mud. It was a quarter-past five and
I lay down at full length, glad to have a few minutes to myself. But the
pain in my feet became intolerable--I jumped up and stamped the floor of
the tent, grinding my teeth with mortification.
Several of the men had not come in yet with their breakfasts. We could
tell by the banging of mess-tins, mugs and plates, and by the angry
shouts of "Get a move on," that a long queue was still waiting in front
of the cook-house.
Suddenly the tent-flap bulged inwards and two hands, the one holding a
full mug and the other a plate, forced their way through. They were
followed by a head and shoulders. Thereupon the man tried to step in,
but he tripped over the brailing underneath the flap, and plunged
forward, spilling the greater part of his tea. He uttered a savage,
snarling oath, walked over to his place and sat down, growling and
cursing under his breath.
Another man followed. As he pushed his way through the entrance the
shoulder-strap of his tunic caught one of the hooks on the flap and his
progress was sharply arrested. He held out his mug and plate helplessly,
but no one moved to assist him.
"Take these bloody things orf me, can't yer!" he shouted with furious
resentment. Someone jumped up and took the mug and plate, while the
newcomer freed himself from the hook.
It was five-and-twenty past five when the last of us came in with his
breakfast. But before he could reach his place there was a loud blast of
a whistle, and a distant voice shouted, "On Parade!"
The irritation that had been accumulating since reveillé burst out.
"Why can't they let yer finish yer breakfast--'tain't 'alf-past yet, not
be a long way!"
"They treat yer like pigs!"
"We're a bloody lot o' fools ter stand it--that's the worst o' this mob
though, yer'll never get 'em ter stick together an' do anythink."
"I bet the C.O.'s enjoyin' 'isself...." A stream of filthy language
followed--abuse of the Commanding Officer, abuse of the army, abuse of
the war, and abuse of the Government. The man could find no other way of
expressing himself with adequate force and crudity. At times he became
incoherent.
He was not grumbling at the little hardships and discomforts of this
particular morning. He was grumbling at an entire life of discomfort. He
was rebelling against his degrading slavery and enforced misery, and it
was the harrowing consciousness of his own impotence that added such
bitterness to his anger.
Not one of us left the tent. There was a second blast of the whistle,
louder and more prolonged than the first, followed by an angrier "On
Parade!"
We stepped out into the cold air one by one and splashed and plodded
through the slush in surly reluctant fashion. The day had just begun to
dawn, and in the grey twilight I could perceive innumerable dingy
figures moving slowly towards the parade ground amid the falling snow.
A long double line of men had already formed up. The Sergeant-Major blew
his whistle a third time and shouted "On Parade--get a bloody move on!"
Masses of men came straggling up and the line grew longer and longer.
Another double line was formed behind it, and then a third and fourth.
Nearly everybody was on parade, only a few here and there were coming
over from the tents. The Sergeant-Major observed them and shouted to the
Corporal of the Police: "Corporal, take those men's names--have 'em up
for orderly room this evening." Then he turned to us. "If you can't turn
out a bit smarter, I'll have you on parade ten minutes earlier--this is
the last warning yer'll get."
The Police Corporal was standing over by the tent-lines, entering the
names of the stragglers in his notebook. I could see a solitary figure
issue furtively from a tent and slink round the bottom of the parade
ground in order to join us from behind and escape observation. I wished
him success and followed his movements with interest. But just as he was
darting into the ranks, one of our Sergeants caught sight of him and
said to the Sergeant-Major: "There's a man what's just fell in over
there, sir."
The Sergeant-Major shouted "Come here!" in peremptory tones, but the man
pretended he had not heard and remained in the ranks.
"Come here, damn you!"
This second order frightened him, he slunk out of the line, crossed over
to the Sergeant-Major and stood to attention before him.
"What's the matter with you, are you deaf? Why aren't you on parade in
time? D'you want to sleep all day?"
"I thought--er--parade was at--was at half-past--and--and--I couldn't
find my puttees...."
"Who the hell d'you think yer talkin' to--_Sir_ to me, d'you hear!"
"Yes, sir ... I couldn't help it, sir ... I couldn't find...."
"Take this man's name and number, Corporal. We'll have him up for
Orderly Room to-night.... Fall in and look sharp, damn you, keeping us
all waiting like this."
It was still snowing hard. Our caps and shoulders were covered with a
white layer. The parade ground was a big stretch of well-trodden mud and
slush. We sank into it up to our ankles. Our feet were torturing us, but
only a few men in the rear ranks ventured to stamp the ground a little.
The wet had penetrated our boots several weeks before and they had never
been dry since.
The Sergeant-Major blew his whistle and shouted: "Listen to the Orders."
He held a bundle of papers in his hand and read with the help of a
torch:
"Every man must shave once in twenty-four hours. Buttons" (he pronounced
it "boottons," for he came from the North Country), "cap-badges and
numerals must be cleaned thoroughly once a day. Box-respirators and
steel helmets will always be carried. Except when it is raining,
great-coats or waterproofs will not be worn when men are working. Men
are forbidden to smoke while at work.
"It is observed that discipline is becoming very slack indeed throughout
the Coomp'ny. It is especially noticed in marching, taking up dressin',
etc. The men ... app ... the men apparently ... do not realize that when
marching at all times each section of fours must keep their dressing and
cover off correctly and keep the step and when at attention there must
be no talking and the order to stand at ease is a drill-movement and the
heads and bodies must be kept still. Unless there is an improvement in
future the Coomp'ny will parade each evening at 5.30 and on Sunday
afternoon for extra drill.
"Men must not clean their boots on the refuse tins, otherwise the tins,
which are of thin material only get--er--demol--demolished. Mud from
boots must not be put into tins.
"Pigs in camp are army property and will eventually be consumed by this
Coomp'ny. It is therefore not only--er--reprehensible, but also against
their own interest if men tease these pigs and pull them about by tails
and ears or feed them with unsuitable food. Offenders will be severely
dealt with."
We had been on parade for nearly half an hour. The torture of freezing
toes was so acute that even men in the front ranks were trying to get
warm by treading the mud or sharply raising and lowering their heels.
The Sergeant-Major suddenly observed them, blew his whistle and shouted
angrily: "Stand still there ---- ---- d'you hear? Stand still there.
Can't yer understand English, damn yer?" We were convinced that we would
hear the blast of his whistle and his angry shout in our nightmares to
the end of our days.
He was in reality quite a kind-hearted man, but he was bullied by his
superiors just as we were bullied by ours. He was bullied into being a
bully. And his superiors were bullied by their superiors. The army is
ruled by fear--and it is this constant fear that brutalizes men not
naturally brutal.
The Sergeant-Major began to call out the fatigue parties. We felt
relieved and thought that at last we would begin to move and get warm.
"Fall out Sergeant Waley's party!"
A score of men splashed across the mud and lined up under Sergeant
Waley.
"Fall out Sergeant Hemingway's party!"
Forty or fifty men lined up. It was Sergeant Hemingway whose sense of
duty had prompted him to report the man whom he saw slinking into the
ranks after we were all assembled on parade.
Then the proceedings were interrupted. One of our officers, wearing top
boots and a fur-lined overcoat with a big fur collar, emerged from the
half darkness and the whirl of snowflakes and walked up to the
Sergeant-Major, who stood to attention and saluted. The officer returned
the salute and the two talked together for several minutes.
A man in the front rank not far from me muttered in an agonized voice:
"Gorblimy, get a bloody move on--I'm perishin' wi' cold." Another added:
"They don't say nothin' when _'e_ comes late on parade--'e wouldn't mind
if we was kept 'ere all day--oo, me feet, they're absolutely froze."
The Sergeant-Major swung round sharply and bawled out: "Stop that
talking there--you're stood to attention!" Then he went on talking to
the officer. At length the conversation came to an end. Salutes were
exchanged once more and the officer walked over towards a house on the
far side of the road that ran alongside the camp. As he opened the front
door a warm glow shone out into the gloomy morning. Then the door
closed, like the gates that close on paradise, and there was nothing
left to relieve the dismal dreariness of our dingy world.
"Sergeant Fuller's party!"
Another set of men fell out. I did not really belong to them, but I
joined them because I noticed that one of my friends was of their
number, while all the men of my own party were strangers to me. I hoped
that I would not be detected.
Sergeant Fuller counted his men. There was one less than the required
number and I felt encouraged, for there could now be no objection to my
presence. The Sergeant asked: "Where's Private Hartley?" and someone
answered, "Gone sick, Sergeant." Suddenly he perceived me and asked:
"What are you doing here?"
"I've come instead of Private Hartley, Sergeant," I replied, hoping that
the feeble lie would pass.
"Who gave you permission?"
"Er--I--Hartley said I could take his place."
"Who's Hartley? Is he God Almighty? Get back to your own party!"