MY FIRST OFFICIAL BATH
Right behind our rest billet was a large creek about ten feet deep and
twenty feet across, and it was a habit of the company to avail
themselves of an opportunity to take a swim and at the same time
thoroughly wash themselves and their underwear when on their own. We
were having a spell of hot weather, and these baths to us were a
luxury. The Tommies would splash around in the water and then come out
and sit in the sun and have what they termed a "shirt hunt." At first
we tried to drown the "cooties," but they also seemed to enjoy the
bath.
One Sunday morning, the whole section was in the creek and we were
having a gay time, when the Sergeant-Major appeared on the scene. He
came to the edge of the creek and ordered: "Come out of it. Get your
equipment on, 'Drill order,' and fall in for bath parade. Look lively
my hearties. You have only got fifteen minutes." A howl of indignation
from the creek greeted this order, but out we came. Discipline is
discipline. We lined up in front of our billet with rifles and
bayonets (why you need rifles and bayonets to take a bath gets me), a
full quota of ammunition, and our tin hats. Each man had a piece of
soap and a towel. After an eight-kilo march along a dusty road, with
an occasional shell whistling overhead, we arrived at a little squat
frame building upon the bank of a creek. Nailed over the door of this
building was a large sign which read "Divisional Baths." In a wooden
shed in the rear, we could hear a wheezy old engine pumping water.
We lined up in front of the baths, soaked with perspiration, and piled
our rifles into stacks. A Sergeant of the R. A. M. C. with a yellow
band around his left arm on which was "S. P." (Sanitary Police) in
black letters, took charge, ordering us to take off our equipment,
unroll our puttees, and unlace boots. Then, starting from the right of
the line, he divided us into squads of fifteen. I happened to be in
the first squad.
We entered a small room where we were given five minutes to undress,
then filed into the bath room. In here there were fifteen tubs
(barrels sawed in two) half full of water. Each tub contained a piece
of laundry soap. The Sergeant informed us that we had just twelve
minutes in which to take our baths. Soaping ourselves all over, we
took turns in rubbing each other's backs, then by means of a garden
hose, washed the soap off. The water was ice cold, but felt fine.
Pretty soon a bell rang and the water was turned off. Some of the
slower ones were covered with soap, but this made no difference to the
Sergeant, who chased us into another room, where we lined up in front
of a little window, resembling the box office in a theater, and
received clean underwear and towels. From here we went into the room
where we had first undressed. Ten minutes was allowed in which to get
into our "clabber."
My pair of drawers came up to my chin and the shirt barely reached my
diaphragm, but they were clean,--no strangers on them, and so I was
satisfied.
At the expiration of the time allotted we were turned out and finished
our dressing on the grass.
When all of the company had bathed it was a case of march back to
billets. That march was the most uncongenial one imagined, just
cussing and blinding all the way. We were covered with white dust and
felt greasy from sweat. The woolen underwear issued was itching like
the mischief.
After eating our dinner of stew, which had been kept for us,--it was
now four o'clock,--we went into the creek and had another bath.
If "Holy Joe" could have heard our remarks about the Divisional Baths
and army red tape, he would have fainted at our wickedness. But Tommy
is only human after all.
I just mentioned "Holy Joe" or the Chaplain in an irreverent sort of
way but no offense was meant, as there were some very brave men among
them.
There are so many instances of heroic deeds performed under fire in
rescuing the wounded that it would take several books to chronicle
them, but I have to mention one instance performed by a Chaplain,
Captain Hall by name, in the Brigade on our left, because it
particularly appealed to me.
A chaplain is not a fighting man; he is recognized as a non-combatant
and carries no arms. In a charge or trench raid the soldier gets a
feeling of confidence from contact with his rifle, revolver, or bomb
he is carrying. He has something to protect himself with, something
with which he can inflict harm on the enemy,--in other words, he is
able to get his own back.
But the chaplain is empty handed, and is at the mercy of the enemy if
he encounters them, so it is doubly brave for him to go over the top,
under fire, and bring in wounded. Also a chaplain is not required by
the King's Regulations to go over in a charge, but this one did, made
three trips under the hottest kind of fire, each time returning with a
wounded man on his back. On the third trip he received a bullet
through his left arm, but never reported the matter to the doctor
until late that night--just spent his time administering to the
wants of the wounded lying on stretchers waiting to be carried to the
rear by ambulances.
The chaplains in the British Army are a fine, manly set of men, and
are greatly respected by Tommy.