"DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSS-ROADS TO-NIGHT"
Last week we abandoned the rural billets in which we had been
remodelling some of our methods (on the experiences gained by our
first visit to the trenches), and paraded at full strength for a march
which we knew would bring us right into the heart of things. No more
trial trips; no more chaperoning! This time, we decided, we were "for
it."
During our three weeks of active service we have learned two
things--the art of shaking down quickly into our habitation of the
moment, as already noted; and the art of reducing our personal effects
to a portable minimum.
To the private soldier the latter problem presents no difficulties.
Everything is arranged for him. His outfit is provided by the
Government, and he carries it himself. It consists of a rifle,
bayonet, and a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition. On one side of
him hangs his water-bottle, containing a quart of water, on the other,
a haversack, occupied by his "iron ration"--an emergency meal of the
tinned variety, which must never on any account be opened except by
order of the C.O.--and such private effects as his smoking outfit and
an entirely mythical item of refreshment officially known as "the
unexpended portion of the day's ration." On his back he carries a
"pack," containing his greatcoat, waterproof sheet, and such changes
of raiment as a paternal Government allows him. He also has to find
room therein for a towel, housewife, and a modest allowance of
cutlery. (He frequently wears the spoon in his stocking, as a
skean-dhu.) Round his neck he wears his identity disc. In his
breast-pocket he carries a respirator, to be donned in the event of
his encountering the twin misfortunes of an east wind and a gaseous
Hun. He also carries a bottle of liquid for damping the respirator. In
the flap of his jacket is sewn a field dressing.
Slung behind him is an entrenching tool.
Any other space upon his person is at his own disposal, and he may
carry what he likes, except "unsoldierly trinkets"--whatever these may
be. However, if the passion for self-adornment proves too strong, he
may wear "the French National Colours"--a compliment to our gallant
ally which is slightly discounted by the fact that her national
colours are the same as our own.
However, once he has attached this outfit to his suffering person,
and has said what he thinks about its weight, the private has no more
baggage worries. Except for his blanket, which is carried on a waggon,
he is his own arsenal, wardrobe, and pantry.
Not so the officer. He suffers from _embarras de choix_. He is the
victim of his female relatives, who are themselves the victims of
those enterprising tradesmen who have adopted the most obvious method
of getting rid of otherwise unsaleable goods by labelling everything
_For Active Service_--a really happy thought when you are trying
to sell a pipe of port or a manicure set. Have you seen Our Active
Service Trouser-Press?
By the end of April Bobby Little had accumulated, with a view to
facilitating the destruction of the foe--
An automatic Mauser pistol, with two thousand rounds of
ammunition.
A regulation Service revolver.
A camp bed.
A camp table.
A camp chair.
A pneumatic mattress.
[This ingenious contrivance was meant to be blown up, like an
air-cushion, and Bobby's servant expended most of the day and much
valuable breath in performing the feat. Ultimately, in a misguided
attempt to save his lungs from rupture, he employed a bicycle
pump, and burst the bed.]
A sleeping (or "flea") bag.
A portable bath.
A portable washhand-stand.
A dressing-case, heavily ballasted with cut-glass bottles.
A primus stove.
A despatch case.