CARPE DIEM
"Home again!" said Begbie Lyte as he watched his servant unrolling his
valise in the little field we had left a fortnight before, and the rest
of us laughed, for he voiced the thoughts of all.
It required a bit of an optimist to see a home in that apparently
comfortless situation, but men just relieved from the firing line are
not over-critical, and the prospect of a night under the stars, but away
from the crash of shell and the "phit" of striking bullets, was pleasant
enough to satisfy the most chronic grouser.
We had, of course, only reached this billet about dawn, so without
wasting any time over such niceties as washing we bundled our clothes
into a sort of pillow in the head of our "Wolseleys" and drew from the
depths of that wondrous combination of a valise and bed that luxury of
luxuries on active service, a pair of pyjamas, and were soon dozing
comfortably in dreamland.
Our men, lacking such comforts as Wolseley valises and pyjamas, merely
denuded themselves of their equipment, and, with perhaps a preliminary
search for "trench pets," slept in their greatcoats under shelters
rigged up with waterproof sheets. They had no blankets, for it was
summer, and blankets and rum issue are alike "Nah pooh" on the 1st of
June. We had in fact turned in our blankets before starting southward
from Bailleul.
Here and there bivouac fires had been lighted, and round them small
groups sat and talked over our recent losses. In another day they would
mention them no more, though they would never forget them.
Presently even these fell asleep, and when, a few hours later, the moon
showed herself between the clouds she looked down on a still and silent
camp, the only signs of life being the dying embers of the fires and the
dark forms of the sentries moving slowly up and down the field.
Custom permitted us to sleep on till noon the next day, and then
everybody had a grand clean up. A shower-bath was extemporised by the
simple process of standing over a ditch naked and unashamed while a
patient _batman_, with the aid of what is called, in official language,
"one pail, collapsible canvas," poured water over until, breathless but
refreshed, the victim shouted to stop. Later on sundry private soldiers
whom one had known in civil life would approach and ask for the loan of
the pail. Such is democracy in the "Colonials."
Bath being over, the razor was vigorously applied and a week's growth
scraped painfully from sunburnt chins, on which talcum powder was
afterwards daubed in copious quantities till we smelt to heaven like a
Gaiety chorus!
Then breakfast! Its fragrance had been tantalising our noses during all
this gay preliminary, for dirty as we may get--and yet sit down to eat
in the trenches--it was an unwritten law that no man who was not shaved,
shorn, and washed after the manner of the Romans should sit down to mess
when in reserve. Lyte one day in a burst of enthusiasm, while treasurer
of the mess, decreed that the servants should also wash before starting
to cook, but after one trial, dinner being thereby delayed a couple of
hours, the mess rebelled and the cooks were allowed to revert to their
former state of barbarism.
Breakfast over, there came the censoring of mail, so that it could be
sent to battalion headquarters before 2 o'clock. This is supposed by
some to furnish an endless amount of amusement to the officers, and
often facetious remarks are introduced by the writer to this end, but to
most of us censoring is a beastly bore, and one views with dismay the
enormous pile of letters that your platoon sergeant dumps down on your
bed each day at noon with the laconic announcement of "Mail, sir!"
One runs across people of many sorts while reading through this heap.
The first and commonest is the married man who sticks strictly to
private affairs and perhaps says to to his wife: "You remember Jimmy
D----who used to work at So-and-so's. He was killed by a shell, but you
can tell his wife he didn't suffer none, as he died quick." Not a word
you will notice of his own escape or of anything that would tend to
aggravate the sorrow of the stricken family. Of the same affair he would
probably write to a chum: "You know poor old Jimmy D----. He was all
blew to hell by a whizz-bang. A chunk of it just missed my napper by an
inch. I come near going West that time, believe me!"
Then there is another type whose endless exaggerations make one wish to
scribble the word "liar" at the end of each paragraph, but which you
pass, after scratching out the numbers of our slain and some of the
grosser statements.
Once in a while you may come across a guileless sort of man who, after
extolling the virtues of his platoon commander, proceeds to tell his
friend Bob: "No, I haven't been made a corporal yet, but our section has
none now and I am the oldest soldier left." One feels great curiosity as
to the state of this paragon's conduct sheet.
However, these are mere details. The great joy of being in reserve
billets is the ability to go, after parades, of course, into the nearest
town and spend the 125 francs that the paymaster exchanges once a month
for a Bank of Montreal cheque. The private soldier, receiving a meagre
30 francs a month, has to content himself with simpler joys than
champagne (vintage 1914) and hand-made lace. Instead he partakes of
French beer at three sous a glass, and his friends overseas receive
hand-embroidered postcards of brilliant but patriotic designs worked by
the crippled children of Paris.
The greater part of the soldiers' money, however, is spent on
food--dainties such as oatmeal, sardines, canned fruit, and so
forth--and little shops close to the firing line welcome the
twice-monthly visit of the paymaster.
Bethune, the town outside of which we were at this time billeted, was
quite the gayest place we had visited since leaving Poperinghe.
"Business as usual" was its motto, in spite of the almost daily shelling
it received by light guns, said to have been mounted on an armoured
train.
This bombardment took place, as a rule, between 6 and 7 o'clock each
evening, but the damage done was very slight, only one soldier being
reported killed during our stay. There were civilians killed at various
times, but from a military point of view the shelling was absolutely
useless.
If, perchance, one was taking tea with Marie, or anyone else for that
matter, and the shelling started, it was quite the thing to seek the
shelter of the cellar and stay there "_en famille_" until the
bombardment was over, when you would emerge, Mademoiselle perhaps
pushing a loosened hairpin back in place, and continue to enjoy your
tea.
It was not everyone's fortune to have this happen, however.
The bank took a more serious view of the affair, and, having sandbagged
the cellar windows, posted notices stating that, in the event of
shelling, customers could continue business in the cellar. And this was
in a nation that we have always looked upon as effeminate and excitable!
Under these pleasant circumstances, plus a little setting-up drill and
"physical jerks," we passed a very pleasant fortnight before going into
the trenches again--this time at Givenchy.