GOING UP THE LINE
PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A
HEATED ARGUMENT
Next morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for
disembarkation.
About 7 A.M. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted,
jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.
I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so
narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.
Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of
humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.
Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and
struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to
find a footing on the gang-plank.
The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its
burden. There were two gang-planks: one to go down and one to come
up.
But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable
result being that those going up met those coming down, until they
became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.
Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They
either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe
way of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other
times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious
manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold
desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.
Here we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic
endeavours to create order from chaos.
In circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing
officer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available
and drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of
being popular.
I am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the
name seems very appropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term
for such dilapidated vehicles.
We were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the
dusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.
Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus,
looking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara
Desert.
Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to
carry his equipment on his back; neither would it seem right for
Septimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his
well-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside
him. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon
it as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a
taxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing
away.
We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.
Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for
breakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the
nearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coin vigorously
on the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his
nose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.
Two days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was
to proceed up the line that evening.
I was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops
departing that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip
and avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who
suddenly finds himself O.C. train, has the most difficult one of all.
I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and
as a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and
several sheets of printed instructions.
"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there."
"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding on to the mysterious
bundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.
"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your
charge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the
R.T.O."
"How many men have I charge of?"
"Rather a big crowd going to-night--38 officers and 1,140 other
ranks."
"What regiments do they belong to?"
"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment
serving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various
units, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English,
Scotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen,
artillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your
hands full to-night.
"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to
the station. It's a good five miles from here."
When I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long,
formed up ready to march off.
I gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and
trusted to the remainder to follow on.
It was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long
boulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was.
Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and
trust blindly to my direction. I pinned my faith to the guide, and on
we went.
Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very
remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make
anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.
I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.
"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?" I
demanded.
"I think so, sir. I don't know."
"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before."
"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you
are not sure of the way?"
"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best."
"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?"
"The adjutant, sir."
"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?"
"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he
detailed me to act as your guide."
What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and
finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.
I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his
desk.
The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the
memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have
reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.
There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.
There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He
has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the
trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the
base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We
have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he
treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can
spot such men in a moment.
But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never
heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.
Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him
prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how
you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the
trenches.
What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his
highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication
trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said
to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him
here!"
It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents;
danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give
you the creeps.
How you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and
telling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down
those clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage
(if he ever had any) would be at its lowest.
What a delight it would be if we only had him with us when we take
over our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout,
and tell him to curl himself up to sleep there.
How sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale-coloured breeches,
huddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw
December morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with
the wet clay of numerous fingers.