Here where the world is quiet except for the noise of the rain trickling
into one's valise through the nooks and crannies of one's rustic
apartment--here where there is no peril from above and no peril from in
front, neither peril of enfilade, here too--it is a Base I am doing this
sentence about--we have our problems.
To begin with there is the glorious uncertainty of things. Some men are
here to-day and the far side of Wipers to-morrow night. Others arrive
from England thirsting for all sorts of things that no sane man ever
wants to have anything to do with, and are kept doing a bomb course and
a machine-gun course on alternate days for eight months. There is a tale
told of one such who, when he was finally sent to the trenches, was
returned as hopeless after three days because he would do nothing except
sit beside a machine gun trying to fill the belt with grenades. There is
no sadder story in the War.
Now if I knew for certain that I was going to be here eight months I
could marry and settle down. Or if I knew for certain I was for Wipers
to-morrow night I could make a new will--not that there's anything the
matter with the old one, but I met a man on leave who put me up to some
good tips in will-making--and settle up. But as it is part of our
military system for junior officers not to know anything I dare not even
have my letters forwarded.
Anyhow, Bases are not what they were in my young days. Of course there
were always parades; but you obviously couldn't parade while you were
busy over some Alternative Necessary Duty. Alternative Necessary Duties
were always my strongest suit. On the evening of my arrival in camp I
would summon the Band Sergeant and provide him with my programme of
work. On Monday he would please arrange for a criminal in my detail. On
Tuesday I would use my influence in the matter of obtaining clothing for
my detail. This would be a very laborious task, involving three
signatures in ink or indelible pencil; but no matter, to a good officer
the comfort of his men comes before everything. On Wednesday I would pay
my men. Rotten job, paying out, but ensures Generous Glow, and no
expense unless you lose the Acquittance Roll. On Thursday I would read
Standing Orders to the latest arrived draft; maybe they had had this
done to them once already, but one cannot be too particular. A private I
know of who had only had Standing Orders read to him once got into awful
trouble through carelessly kicking a recalcitrant corporal on the head.
That just shows you. On Friday--but I weary you, if that be possible.
Suffice it that the Base went very well then.
The trouble began, as usual, high up. The G.O. Commanding something most
frightfully important inspected one of our parades one morning and found
7,528 other ranks under one Second-Lieutenant. All might have been well
if the Second-Lieutenant had not forgotten to fire the correct salute of
fourteen bombs (or whatever was the correct salute). The G.O.C.
investigated. He searched the woods and delved in the instructional
trenches, but never another officer came to light. So he went home and,
after a bad lunch--we surmise--set himself to abolish Alternative
Necessary Duties in a formal edict. No officer is to absent himself from
a parade except by the express orders of an O.C. Base Depôt.
This happened several days ago, and the ruling is probably obsolete by
now, but I am wondering how I shall break the news to the G.O.C. if I
should happen to meet him on one of my morning walks into town; and in
my heart of heart I know that one fine morning I shall be cowardly, and
wake before nine, and attend my first parade at army Base. Some zealous
despatch rider will dash hot-foot to the G.O.C. with the news, and he
will come and rub his hands and chuckle and gloat. It will be a Black
Day.
Here too there are minor points of etiquette that vex one. Is it correct
for me, having bought half a kilo of chocolates while waiting for a
train, to kill further time by eating them out of a paper bag under the
surveillance of an A.S.C. sergeant? or ought I to offer a few to the
sergeant with some _jeu d'esprit_--never coarse and never cruel--about
bully beef? Of such are the complexities with which a Base harasses the
soul of an officer nurtured in the genial simplicity of trench life.
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