LIFE IN THE ENGLISH CAMP
After my first trip home, for a few days I went about my work without
interest, but when one is in superb physical condition, it is
impossible to be depressed long, and soon I was grumbling away again
as happy as ever. Still the wretched weather continued. If it did
not rain, it snowed; if it did not do one or the other, it did both;
if it did not do both, a fog you could take in your hand would hang
over the place the whole day long. If the Fates decreed we should
have a fine day, we were worked till our bones cried out for rest.
In the early morning we would curse the bugles as they blared out
their warning for us to be up and doing. Sometimes the temptation
grew too strong and one of us would be missing when we fell in
shivering for our mornings physical torture. This is the name the
Canadians had for physical drill. The tardy one would regret his
indifference to "Reveille" before the day had well begun, for he
would usually be told off for all fatigues, as well as turning out
for the day's work with the battalion.
A vigorous trot would set our blood coursing through our veins, and
after the torture had loosened up our muscles, we wondered why we had
ever wanted to stay in bed at all.
Breakfast would follow, and after that we would fall in to be
inspected by the officers, tongue-lashed by the Colonel, and finally
marched off for instruction in tactics on the field, or other
necessary parts of an infantry soldier's training. We might arrive
back in time to partake of a noon-day meal, or it would perhaps be in
the middle of the afternoon, or again we might stay out the whole
twenty-four hours.
Night alarms would see us sleepily but frantically struggling to don
our equipment so that we would make a record for our company by being
first at the assembling post. The language on such occasions was
almost the acme of perfection, because our studies in the army in
that regard had brought us to a truly wonderful state of efficiency
in fluency and the ability to improvise suitable words for all
occasions.
One may therefore imagine the atmosphere when a buckle of Morgan's
equipment would fix itself firmly in some inaccessible part of mine
and we would struggle to straighten out the tangle by the dim light
of a candle. Usually it would end by one of us inadvertently putting
out the candle. After this there would be absolute silence as even
our vocabulary was not adequate to the situation. With clenched
teeth we would relight the candle, if we were fortunate enough to
find it; if not, we finished our dressing by touch, each mentally
cursing the other for his clumsiness.
Finally we would stumble to the assembly post to receive a wigging
from the O.C. (officer commanding) of the company down. On our way
back Morgan would tell me that in all his life he had never known one
so blankety-blank a clumsy as I was, and I would consign him to
everlasting perdition, and the quarrel would wax hotter and hotter,
to the great amusement of the other boys, until we arrived at the
inevitable stage when the challenge to fight is given. Then the
sergeant would step in, and we would be obliged to satisfy ourselves
by mentally vowing to settle it once for all when we got back to
camp. However, the excitement and fatigue would soon cool our
tempers, and the usual sequel was for the two of us to be found
foraging in some mutual enemy's camp, or we would settle down,
cuddled in one another's arms, for a long refreshing sleep.
At the remount camp, situated about two miles from our own camp, were
a number of unbroken horses; these were used as remounts for
artillery, cavalry, transports, etc. Every day two or more companies
from the battalion were told off as "Remount fatigue" and had to
clean and groom the animals, and one day shortly after this, when it
was part of my duty to assist in taking a load of provisions for the
men who were looking after the horses, we came upon a wondrous
object, lying resplendent in all its native beauty, by the side of
the road. Hardly believing our eyes, we bore down upon the stranger.
It was real, and we rejoiced. Thirty-six gallons of good beer had
wandered away from a jolting wagon. After several vain efforts, in
which we nearly ruptured ourselves with straining, we finally
succeeded in hoisting it on our transport. It was necessary to
resort to "camouflage" to hide our treasure, but it was done. The
day passed slowly, as we curried and brushed that kicking, squealing
mass. We were tortured with fear lest any of the others should
discover our find. As expert thieves we respected others of the
craft, and in this case we feared them.
Night came, and to our relief, our cask had not been unearthed. That
night figures might have been discerned in the gloom, stealthily
making their way to a certain big marquee. Inside this marquee was
stacked bales of hay and other feed for the transport animals.
By the dim light of two stable lanterns we paid our respects to the
delightful stranger until we had exhausted its hospitality, and at
"Lights out" we tacked homewards, after an affectionate farewell to
one another.
I will not attempt to excuse myself, or the others, but perhaps we
may be forgiven when I tell you that on Salisbury Plain we endured
the most frightful weather conditions. Add to this our isolation
from anyone but soldiers, and the entire absence of amusement except
what we manufactured ourselves, and some toleration may be vouchsafed
us. If those boys let loose occasionally, they also blocked the road
to Calais, and many forget this when criticizing the men, who not
only faced hell in France and Flanders, but cheerfully fore-went
almost all the advantages that later contingents enjoyed while in
training.
On a soaking wet night a few of us tramped over the plains to our new
homes and huts, which had been given us in substitution for the
tents. For some reason hut life told on the health of the boys and
that terrible scourge, cerebral spinal meningitis broke out, and soon
many were infected. For myself, I never contracted anything but a
trick of getting into trouble. Still the rain descended and the mud
deepened. It was in the hut that many of the peculiarities of our
comrades helped to amuse us. Big Bill Skerry and young Fitzpatrick
had struck up a close friendship with each other, although Bill was
about double the age of Fitz. At intervals three solitary long hairs
would appear amongst the down on Fitz's chin, then Bill would declare
it was time Fitz had a shave, and he would seize his young friend,
and a mighty struggle would ensue, but it usually ended by Bill
clipping off the three sisters--Faith, Hope and Charity, as someone
called them.
Another fellow, Bolous, whom we had with us, was the butt of much of
our wicked horse-play. This strange being worked, ate and slept with
an automatic colt attached to his belt. For the sake of soldier
critics, I may say he kept it under cover on parade, but it never
left him. Naturally we asked him when he expected to meet the guy
who was looking for him. Many an attempt was made to steal that gun,
but no matter how soundly he slept, the slightest movement or touch
near him would bring him to a sitting position, with the automatic on
a dead line for the would-be thief's head. He had never been in
England before, and we romanced to him so earnestly about the
denizens of Whitechapel, that on his first visit to London, instead
of just his one automatic, he evened up matters by wearing one on the
other side, and stalked down Whitechapel, armed to the teeth.
This man was deeply interested in bayonet fighting, and would
question our instructors until they loathed the sight of him. He
studied the matter from all angles and would endeavor to get the man
next to him to act the part of an attacking Hun in order to show us
his own method of rendering Fritz _hors de combat_. Nobody ever
volunteered as there is no knowing what he would have done in his
eagerness to spit something with that bayonet. He devoured all that
he could find in drill books about "Hun Sticking." He was
particularly nerve trying at night, when we hobnobbed at cards or
were reading before "Lights out." Everything would be quiet, except
for the low murmur of conversation and an occasional heartfelt oath
from a loser in the poker party. Then suddenly we would almost jump
out of our skins, as a figure hurled itself at the rifle rack, seized
a rifle from the stand, fixed the bayonet and rushed up and down the
hut furiously parrying and lunging at an imaginary foe. Oblivious of
everything except dispatching the figurative German, he would rush
here and there while we endeavored to avoid the flickering steel.
The man was enormously strong, and agile as a cat, and all we could
do was to dodge as well as we could until his paroxysm passed and he
had settled down to work out some other scheme for Boche killing.
We swore we would murder him if he did not cease these imitations of
a madman, but glad are we all who knew him that we took his wild
behavior good naturedly, for a very short time afterwards he
performed deeds of the most self-sacrificing kind under a wall of
shell fire. Not a few men owe their lives today to his devotion to
duty on that awful day at Ypres.
One night I was guilty of a betrayal of trust. I was detailed to
watch some carloads of coal that stood in a siding. My trick
(sentry-go) lasted from four to eight in the morning. The rain was
tumbling down as I floundered through the ooze to relieve the other
sentry. After the sergeant of the guard had gone, I felt really
miserable. There was only one place where I could stand with any
degree of comfort and this was a sort of a step that stood up a few
inches above the surrounding sea of mud, like a tiny rock in a swamp
of brown colored soup. Balancing myself precariously on this forlorn
hope, I thought I would pass the time by singing softly to myself.
This seemed to bring the rain down with redoubled force so I stopped
and took to cursing instead. Then the disaster came. I was gazing
through the murk at nothing when a desire to stretch overtook me; I
did so and the rifle overbalanced me. After several wild attempts to
regain my balance, I floundered face down into the quagmire below.
When I had partially digested the highly flavored mud, I addressed my
surroundings with much feeling.
It was useless now to bother about trying to keep dry, as I was
seeping wet through, so I stood and watched the liquid mass swirling
around me and the water flapping at my knees. I could see dimly by
the light of a sputtering electric light at one corner of the car.
Slowly the time passed till I heard in the distance very faintly the
bugles at headquarters sounding "Reveille." This is one of the most
impressive things I have ever heard--the reveille at dawn and the
last post at night. Away in the distance the first notes would steal
faintly across the plain, each succeeding camp would take it up,
until it reached us, then our own massed bugles would blare it out in
one swelling din. From us it would pass to the next camp, until it
died away as faintly as it had begun. Thus were fifty thousand men
awakened from their slumbers, or hurried to them, during the winter
of 1914.
Heaving a deep sigh of mingled appreciation of the music and disgust
at my physical discomfort, I turned once more to studying the
quagmire. Suddenly I was aroused by a gruff voice in a Cockney
accent. It was a man of the big crowd of civilians, chiefly men
unfit for the army, who worked at different occupations in and around
the camp. By the light I saw a little weazened-up man holding two
coal scuttles.
"I say, mate, could I 'ave a couple of scuttles of coal?"
"No, you can't," I replied, "beat it."
The little man stood his ground and I was glad of it, because here
was someone to quarrel with, and I would gladly have quarreled with
my own father at that moment after my night of shivering. However,
there was to be no scrap. Just as I came within striking distance he
opened his coat and displayed a flat bottle:
"Loike a drink, guv?"
I eyed the bottle for a second.
"How much is in it?" I asked.
"She's full."
Alas poor, frail humanity; my mind was made up in an instant. "You
can take the bloomin' car if you'll give me the bottle."
"Righto," said he; "I only want a couple of scuttles-full, but yer
can 'ave the bottle."
My stomach was empty, my clothes were soaked, I was wet and chilled
through and through, but when my relief came I was supremely content
with my lot. The sergeant sniffed suspiciously, but I held my tongue
and bottle both.
A few nights following the above I experienced one of those
unforgetable sensations that men have at one time or another in their
lives. A very old and dear friend of mine, a veteran of a former
campaign, had enlisted with the Princess Pats and the first
opportunity I had I searched him out at the camp of the Pats.
Returning home across the hills to our own camp I suddenly became
aware of the roll of men's voices singing an old familiar hymn. The
wind blowing in my direction carried the sound even above the swish
of the rain; in fact, the solemnity of it all was intensified by the
steady swish of the downpour. Every evening men by the thousands
congregated in our only place of recreation, the huge Y.M.C.A.
marquee, and on this evening they were singing that old favorite of
all civilization, "Nearer, My God to Thee." It sounded like a mighty
requiem.