EARLY IMPRESSIONS
BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP
I shall never forget the day I made my first inspection of billets.
While walking through the village street I noticed a structure which
appeared to be inviting some stray breath of wind to cause it to
surrender its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of rubbish.
Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had served the purpose of a
covering for cattle, for I believe cattle are not very particular in
northern France.
It is quite within reason to suppose that, with a view of misleading
his cattle into a false sense of security, the farmer may have called
it a barn. It had never been an expensive structure, nor did it give
any evidence of having ever laid claim to architectural beauty.
But its simplicity of construction was a marvel of ingenuity. Yes, it
was a barn, but who but a genius of modern arts would have thought it
possible to build even a barn by the simple but equally economical
method of erecting a number of props and simply sticking mud between?
But the stability of the barn was, as might reasonably be supposed,
subject to "wind and weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully
deploring its advancing years, and anxiously waiting an early
opportunity to rest its weary limbs in a well-earned rest in a
shapeless heap on the ground that gave it birth.
How very strange! Out of the numerous holes in the wall I saw familiar
faces, while inside a score of men were laughing and joking, playing
cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though they were enjoying
the freedom and comfort of a West End club.
"But what are you men doing here?" I asked.
"This is our billet, sir," answered a lance corporal.
"Your billet? Do you mean you sleep here?"
"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon."
"Comfortable?"
"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches."
"A bit draughty, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have to get used to it."
"But can't you find a better place than this, and with more room? You
seem to be almost on top of each other."
"There is no other place available. The men are quite satisfied, sir."
I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent chaps! And yet, when they
were in comfortable billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts
at Fovant, they were far more particular; when they were recruits and
spent their first night in the army, they looked with dismay at the
prospect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a well-built modern
English house.
War makes men, and hardships breed content!
I will pass over our life in the trenches in this part of the line,
but an incident worth recording occurred while we were marching back
after five days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches facing
Gommecourt Wood.
It is interesting, by the way, to watch the men leaving the trenches
for their rest billets, for, in addition to their packs, they carry
many an additional article of private belongings to add to their
comfort during these tedious days of duty, and they emerge with all
kinds of curious packages and extra articles of clothing strapped or
tied to their equipment. They were covered with mud and clay before
they left the front-line trenches, but the long journey along endless
communication trenches on their way out, gathered up an additional
covering of clay and mud through their bulky attire, until they
resembled a curious assembly of moving debris.
But the incident I have referred to occurred just as we were
approaching a village.
An observation balloon was being drawn down, but when within a hundred
feet of the ground suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly and
drift towards the German lines.
I halted the men, and we watched in breathless suspense the tragedy
which was about to take place before our eyes. There was some one in
the basket of the balloon.
It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save it! Presently the
occupant was seen to lean over the side and throw out a quantity of
books and papers.
Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a great height before the
next sensation caused us to thrill with amazement.
Something dropped like a stone from the basket and then, with a sudden
check, a parachute opened, and a man was seen dangling from it. When
he dropped, the balloon must have been many thousand feet in the air,
and both balloon and parachute continued to drift towards the German
lines.
Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes went up and soared
around the balloon, evidently bent on its destruction.
As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of smoke! A bomb had struck
the balloon, but seemed to have no effect.
The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later we heard the boom of the
anti-aircraft guns.
The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a flash of fire clean
through the centre, a volume of blue smoke, and then it buckled in the
middle. The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased in volume until
the balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning
and shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, anxious
eyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had
approached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.
Both armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no
shot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.
It was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall.
It seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it
reaching the ground in No Man's Land.
As it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing
violence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees.
So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the
parachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.
Next day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight
miles back of the line.
We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.
The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a
smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else
during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.
The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the
never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are
equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.