So much for the alleviations which professional enthusiasm bestows.
Now for a few alleviations proper. These are Sleep, Food, and
Literature.
Sleep is the rarest of these. We seldom get more than a few hours at
a time; but it is astonishing how readily one learns to slumber in
unlikely surroundings--upon damp earth, in cramped positions, amid
ceaseless noise, in clothes and boots that have not been removed for
days. One also acquires the priceless faculty of losing no time in
dropping off.
As for food, we grumble at times, just as people at home are grumbling
at the Savoy, or Lockhart's. It is the Briton's habit so to do. But in
moments of repletion we are fain to confess that the organisation of
our commissariat is wonderful. Of course the quality of the _menu_
varies, according to the immunity of the communication-trenches from
shell fire, or the benevolence of the Quartermaster and the mysterious
powers behind him, or the facilities for cooking offered by the time
and place in which we find ourselves. No large fires are permitted:
the smoke would give too good a ranging-mark to Minnie and her
relatives. Still, it is surprising how quickly you can boil a
canteen over a few chips. There is also, for those who can afford
half-a-crown, that invaluable contrivance, "Tommy's Cooker"; and
occasionally we get a ration of coke. When times are bad, we live on
bully, biscuit, cheese, and water, strongly impregnated with chloride
of lime. The water is conveyed to us in petrol-tins--the old familiar
friends, Shell and Pratt--hundreds of them. Motorists at home must be
feeling the shortage. In normal times we can reckon on plenty of hot,
strong tea; possibly some bread; probably an allowance of bacon and
jam. And sometimes, when the ration parties arrive, mud-stained and
weary, in the dead of night, and throw down their bursting sacks, our
eyes feast upon such revelations as tinned butter, condensed milk,
raisins, and a consignment of that great chieftain of the ration race,
The Maconochie of Maconochie. On these occasions Private Mucklewame
collects his share, retires to his kennel, and has a gala-day.
Thirdly, the blessings of literature. Our letters arrive at night,
with the rations. The mail of our battalion alone amounts to eight or
ten mail-bags a day; from which you may gather some faint idea of the
labours of our Field Post Offices. There are letters, and parcels, and
newspapers. Letters we may pass over. They are featureless things,
except to their recipient. Parcels have more individuality. Ours are
of all shapes and sizes, and most of them are astonishingly badly
tied. It is quite heartrending to behold a kilted exile endeavouring
to gather up a heterogeneous mess of socks, cigarettes, chocolate,
soap, shortbread, and Edinburgh rock, from the ruins of what was once
a flabby and unstable parcel, but is now a few skimpy rags of brown
paper, which have long escaped the control of a most inadequate piece
of string--a monument of maternal lavishness and feminine economy.
Then there are the newspapers. We read them right through, beginning
at the advertisements and not skipping even the leading articles.
Then, when we have finished, we frequently read them right through
again. They serve three purposes. They give us information as to how
the War is progressing--we get none here, the rank and file, that
is; they serve to pass the time; and they afford us topics for
conversation. For instance, they enable us to follow and discuss the
trend of home politics. And in this connection, I think it is time you
were introduced to Captain Achille Petitpois. (That is not his real
name, but it is as near to it as most of us are likely to get.) He is
one of that most efficient body, the French _liaison_ officers, who
act as connecting-link between the Allied Forces, and naturally is
an accomplished linguist. He is an ardent admirer of British
institutions, but is occasionally not a little puzzled by their
complexity. So he very sensibly comes to people like Captain Wagstaffe
for enlightenment, and they enlighten him.
Behold Achille--a guest in A Company's billet--drinking
whisky-and-sparklet out of an aluminium mug, and discussing the news
of the day.
"And your people at home," he said, "you think they are taking the War
seriously?" (Achille is addicted to reading the English newspapers
without discrimination.)
"So seriously," replied Wagstaffe instantly, "that it has become
necessary for the Government to take steps to cheer them up."
"Comment?" inquired Achille politely.
For answer Wagstaffe picked up a three-day-old London newspaper, and
read aloud an extract from the Parliamentary report. The report dealt
faithfully with the latest antics of the troupe of eccentric
comedians which appears (to us), since the formation of the Coalition
Government, to have taken possession of the front Opposition Bench.
"Who are these assassins--these imbeciles--these _crétins_," inquired
Petitpois, "who would endanger the ship of the State?" (Achille prides
himself upon his knowledge of English idiom.)
"Nobody knows!" replied Wagstaffe solemnly. "They are children of
mystery. Before the War, nobody had ever heard of them. They--"
"But they should be shot!" explained that free-born Republican,
Petitpois.
"Not a bit, old son! That is where you fail to grasp the subtleties of
British statesmanship. I tell you there are no flies on our Cabinet!"
"Flies?"
"Yes: _mouches_, you know. The agility of our Cabinet Ministers is
such that these little insects find it impossible to alight upon
them."
"Your Ministers are athletes--yes," agreed Achille comprehendingly.
"But the--"
"Only intellectually. What I mean is that they are a very downy
collection of old gentlemen--"
Achille, murmuring something hazy about "Downing Street," nodded his
head.
"--And when they came into power, they knew as well as anything that
after three weeks or so the country would begin to grouse--"
"Grouse? A sporting bird?" interpolated Achille.
"Exactly. They knew that the country would soon start giving them the
bird--"
"What bird? The grouse?"
"Oh, dry up, Wagger!" interposed Blaikie. "He means, Petitpois, that
the Government, knowing that the electorate would begin to grow
impatient if the War did not immediately take a favourable turn--"
Achille smiled.
"I see now," he said. "Proceed, Ouagstaffe, my old!"
"In other words," continued the officer so addressed, "the Government
decided that if they gave the Opposition half a chance to get
together, and find leaders, and consolidate their new trenches, they
might turn them out."
"Bien," assented Achille. Every one was listening now, for Wagstaffe
as a politician usually had something original to say.
"Well," proceeded Wagstaffe, "they saw that the great thing to do
was to prevent the Opposition from making an impression on the
country--from being taken too seriously, in fact. So what did they
do? They said: 'Let's arrange for a _comic_ Opposition--an Opposition
_pour rire_, you know. They will make the country either laugh or cry.
Anyhow, the country will be much too busy deciding which to do to have
any time to worry about _us_; so we shall have a splendid chance to
get on with the War.' So they sent down the Strand--that's where the
Variety agents foregather, I believe--what you call _entrepreneurs_,
Achille--and booked this troupe, complete, for the run of the War.
They did the thing in style; spared no expense; and got a comic
newspaper proprietor to write the troupe up, and themselves down.
The scheme worked beautifully--what you would call a _succès fou_,
Achille."
"I am desolated, my good Ouagstaffe," observed Petitpois after a
pregnant silence; "but I cannot believe all you say."
"I _may_ be wrong," admitted Wagstaffe handsomely, "but that's my
reading of the situation. At any rate, Achille, you will admit that my
theory squares with the known facts of the case."
Petitpois bowed politely.
"Perhaps it is I who am wrong, my dear Ouagger. There is such a
difference of point of view between your politics and ours."
The deep voice of Captain Blaikie broke in.
"If Lancashire," he said grimly, "were occupied by a German army, as
the Lille district is to-day, I fancy there would be a considerable
levelling up of political points of view all round. No limelight for a
comic opposition then, Achille, old son!"