Innumerable socks and shirts.
A box of soap.
Fifty boxes of matches.
A small medicine chest.
About a dozen first-aid outfits.
A case of pipes, and cigarettes innumerable.
[Bobby's aunts regarded cigars as not quite ascetic enough for
active service. Besides, they might make him sick.]
About a cubic foot of chocolate (various).
Numerous compressed foods and concentrated drinks.
An "active service" cooking outfit.
An electric lamp, with several refills.
A pair of binoculars.
A telescope.
A prismatic compass.
A sparklet siphon.
A luminous watch.
A pair of insulated wire-cutters.
"There's only one thing you've forgotten," remarked Captain Wagstaffe,
when introduced to this unique collection of curios.
"What is that?" inquired Bobby, always eager to learn.
"A pantechnicon! Do you known how much personal baggage an officer is
allowed, in addition to what he carries himself?"
"Thirty-five pounds."
"Correct."
"It sounds a lot," said Bobby.
"It looks precious little!" was Wagstaffe's reply.
"I suppose they won't be particular to a pound or so," said Bobby
optimistically.
"Listen," commanded Wagstaffe. "When we go abroad, your Wolseley
valise, containing this"--he swept his hand round the crowded
hut--"this military museum, will be handed to the Quartermaster. He
is a man of singularly rigid mind, with an exasperating habit of
interpreting rules and regulations quite literally. If you persist in
this scheme of asking him to pass half a ton of assorted lumber as a
package weighing thirty-five pounds, he will cast you forth and remain
your enemy for life. And personally," concluded Wagstaffe, "I would
rather keep on the right side of my Regimental Quartermaster than of
the Commander-in-Chief himself. Now, send all this stuff home--you can
use it on manoeuvres in peace-time--and I will give you a little list
which will not break the baggage-waggon's back."
The methodical Bobby produced a notebook.
"You will require to wash occasionally. Take a canvas bucket, some
carbolic soap, and a good big towel. Also your toothbrush, and--excuse
the question, but do you shave?"
"Twice a week," admitted the blushing Bobby.
"Happy man! Well, take a safety-razor. That will do for cleanliness.
Now for clothing. Lots of socks, but only one change of other things,
unless you care to take a third shirt in your greatcoat pocket. Two
good pairs of boots, and a pair of slacks. Then, as regards sleeping.
Your flea-bag and your three Government blankets, with your valise
underneath, will keep you (and your little bedfellows) as warm as
toast. You may get separated from your valise, though, so take a
ground-sheet in your pack. Then you will be ready to dine and sleep
simply anywhere, at a moment's notice. As regards comforts generally,
take a 'Tommy's cooker,' if you can find room for it, and scrap all
the rest of your cuisine except your canteen. Take a few meat lozenges
and some chocolate in one of your ammunition-pouches, in case you ever
have to go without your breakfast. Rotten work, marching or fighting
on a hollow tummy!"
"What about revolvers?" inquired Bobby, displaying his arsenal, a
little nervously.
"If the Germans catch you with that Mauser, they will hang you. Take
the Webley. Then you can always draw Service ammunition." Wagstaffe
ran his eye over the rest of Bobby's outfit. "Smokes? Take your pipe
and a tinder-box: you will get baccy and cigarettes to burn out there.
Keep that electric torch; and your binoculars, of course. Also that
small map-case: it's a good one. Also wire-cutters. You can write
letters in your field-message-book. Your compass is all right. Add
a pair of canvas shoes--they're a godsend after a long day,--an
air-pillow, some candle-ends, a tin of vaseline, and a ball of string,
and I think you will do. If you find you still have a pound or so in
hand, add a few books--something to fall back on, in case supplies
fail. Personally, I'm taking 'Vanity Fair' and 'Pickwick.' But then,
I'm old-fashioned."
* * * * *
Bobby took Wagstaffe's advice, with the result that that genial
obstructionist, the Quartermaster, smiled quite benignly upon him when
he presented his valise; while his brother officers, sternly bidden
to revise their equipment, were compelled at the last moment to
discriminate frantically between the claims of necessity and
luxury--often disastrously.
However, we had all found our feet, and developed into seasoned
vagabonds when we set out for the trenches last week. A few days
previously we had been inspected by Sir John French himself.
"And that," explained Major Kemp to his subalterns, "usually means
dirty work at the cross-roads at no very distant period!"
* * * * *
Major Kemp was right--quite literally right.
Our march took us back to Armentières, whose sufferings under
intermittent shell fire have already been described. We marched by
night, and arrived at breakfast-time. The same evening two companies
and a section of machine-gunners were bidden to equip themselves with
picks and shovels and parade at dusk. An hour later we found ourselves
proceeding cautiously along a murky road close behind the trenches.
The big guns were silent, but the snipers were busy on both sides.
A German searchlight was combing out the heavens above: a constant
succession of star-shells illumined the earth beneath.
"What are we going to do to-night, sir?" inquired Bobby Little,
heroically resisting an inclination to duck, as a Mauser bullet spat
viciously over his head.
"I believe we are going to dig a redoubt behind the trenches," replied
Captain Blaikie. "I expect to meet an R.E. officer somewhere about
here, and he will tell us the worst. That was a fairly close one,
Bobby! Pass the word down quietly that the men are to keep in to
each side of the road, and walk as low as they can. Ah, there is our
sportsman, I fancy. Good evening!"
A subaltern of that wonderful corps, the Royal Engineers, loomed out
of the darkness, removed a cigarette from his mouth, and saluted
politely.
"Good evening, sir," he said to Blaikie. "Will you follow me, please?
I have marked out each man's digging position with white tape, so
they ought to find no difficulty in getting to work. Brought your
machine-gun officer?"
The machine-gun officer, Ayling, was called up.
"We are digging a sort of square fort," explained the Engineer, "to
hold a battalion. That will mean four guns to mount. I don't know much
about machine-guns myself; so perhaps you"--to Ayling--"will walk
round with me outside the position, and you can select your own
emplacements."
"I shall be charmed," replied Ayling, and Blaikie chuckled.
"I'll just get your infantry to work first," continued the phlegmatic
youth. "This way, sir!"
The road at this point ran through a hollow square of trees, and it
was explained to the working-party that the trees, roughly, followed
the outlines of the redoubt.
"The trenches are about half-finished," added the Engineer. "We had a
party from the Seaforths working here last night. Your men have only
to carry on where they left off. It's chiefly a matter of filling
sandbags and placing them on the parapet." He pointed to a blurred
heap in a corner of the wood. "There are fifty thousand there. Leave
what you don't want!"
"Where do we get the earth to fill the sandbags?" asked Blaikie. "The
trenches, or the middle of the redoubt?"
"Oh, pretty well anywhere," replied the Engineer. "Only, warn your men
to be careful not to dig too deep!"
And with this dark saying he lounged off to take Ayling for his
promised walk.
"I'll take you along the road a bit, first," he said, "and then we
will turn off into the field where the corner of the redoubt is, and
you can look at things from the outside."
Ayling thanked him, and stepped somewhat higher than usual, as a
bullet struck the ground at his feet.
"Extraordinary how few casualties one gets," continued the Sapper
chattily. "Their snipers go potting away all night, but they don't
often get anybody. By the way, they have a machine-gun trained on
this road, but they only loose it off every second night. Methodical
beggars!"
"Did they loose it off last night?"
"No. To-night's the night. Have you finished here!"
"Yes, thanks!"
"Right-o! We'll go to the next corner. You'll get a first-class field
of fire there, I should say."
The second position was duly inspected, the only incident of interest
being the bursting of a star-shell directly overhead.
"Better lie down for a minute," suggested the Engineer.
Ayling, who had been struggling with a strong inclination to do so for
some time, promptly complied.
"Just like the Crystal Palace on a benefit night!" observed his guide
admiringly, as the landscape was lit up with a white glare. "Now you
can see your position beautifully. You can fire obliquely in this
direction, and then do a first-class enfilade if the trenches get
rushed."
"I see," said Ayling, surveying the position with real interest.
He was beginning to enjoy selecting gun-emplacements which really
mattered. It was a change from nine months of "eye-wash."
When the German star-shell had spent itself they crossed the road, to
the rear of the redoubt, and marked the other two emplacements--in
comparative safety now.
"The only trouble about this place," said Ayling, as he surveyed the
last position, "is that my fire will be masked by that house with the
clump of trees beside it."
The Engineer produced a small note-book, and wrote in it by the light
of a convenient star-shell.
"Right-o!" he said. "I'll have the whole caboodle pushed over for you
by to-morrow night. Anything else?"
Ayling began to enjoy himself. After you have spent nine months in an
unprofitable attempt to combine practical machine-gun tactics with a
scrupulous respect for private property, the realisation that you may
now gratify your destructive instincts to the full comes as a welcome
and luxurious shock.
"Thanks," he said. "You might flatten out that haystack, too."
* * * * *
They found the others hard at work when they returned. Captain Blaikie
was directing operations from the centre of the redoubt.
"I say," he said, as the Engineer sat down beside him, "I'm afraid
we're doing a good deal of body-snatching. This place is absolutely
full of little wooden crosses."
"Germans," replied the Engineer laconically.
"How long have they been--here?"
"Since October."
"So I should imagine," said Blaikie, with feeling.
"The crosses aren't much guide, either," continued the Engineer. "The
deceased are simply all over the place. The best plan is to dig until
you come to a blanket. (There are usually two or three to a blanket.)
Then tell off a man to flatten down clay over the place at once, and
try somewhere else. It is a rotten job, though, however you look at
it."
"Have you been here long?" inquired Bobby Little, who had come across
the road for a change of air.
"Long enough! But I'm not on duty continuously. I am Box. Cox takes
over to-morrow." He rose to his feet and looked at his watch.
"You ought to move off by half-past one, sir," he said to Blaikie. "It
begins to get light after that, and the Bosches have three shells for
that cross-road over there down in their time-table at two-fifteen.
They're a hide-bound lot, but punctual!"
"Thanks," said Blaikie. "I shall not neglect your advice. It is
half-past eleven now. Come along, Bobby, and we'll see how old Ayling
is getting on."
* * * * *
Steadily, hour by hour, in absolute silence, the work went on. There
was no talking, but (under extenuating circumstances) smoking was
permitted. Periodically, as the star-shells burst into brilliance
overhead, the workers sank down behind a parapet, or, if there was
no time, stood rigid--the one thing to avoid upon these occasions
is movement of any kind--and gave the snipers a chance. It was not
pleasant, but it was duty; and the word duty has become a mighty force
in "K(1)" these days. No one was hit, which was remarkable, when you
consider what an artist a German sniper is. Possibly the light of the
star-shells was deceptive, or possibly there is some truth in the
general rumour that the Saxons, who hold this part of the line, are
well-disposed towards us, and conduct their offensive operations with
a tactful blend of constant firing and bad shooting, which, while it
satisfies the Prussians, causes no serious inconvenience to Thomas
Atkins.
At a quarter-past one a subdued order ran round the trenches; the men
fell in on the sheltered side of the plantation; picks and shovels
were checked; rifles and equipment were resumed; and the party stole
silently away to the cross-road, where the three shells were timed
to arrive at two-fifteen. When they did so, with true Teutonic
punctuality, an hour later, our friends were well on their way home to
billets and bed--with the dawn breaking behind them, the larks getting
to work overhead, and all the infected air of the German graveyard
swept out of their lungs by the dew of the morning.
As for that imperturbable philosopher, Box, he sat down with a
cigarette, and waited for Cox.