SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE
When I come back to England,
And times of Peace come round,
I'll surely have a shilling,
And may be have a pound;
I'll walk the whole town over,
And who shall say me nay,
For I'm a British soldier
With a British soldier's pay.
The Rest Camp a city of innumerable bell-tents, stood on the summit of
a hill overlooking the town and the sea beyond. We marched up from the
quay in the early morning, followed the winding road paved with
treacherous cobbles that glory in tripping unwary feet, and sweated to
the summit of the hill. Here a new world opened to our eyes: a canvas
city, the mushroom growth of our warring times lay before us; tent
after tent, large and small, bell-tent and marquee in accurate
alignment.
It took us two hours to march to our places; we grounded arms at the
word of command and sank on our packs wearily happy. True, a few (p. 020)
had fallen out; they came in as we rested and awkwardly fell into
position. They were men who had been sea-sick the night before. We
were too excited to rest for long; like dogs in a new locality we were
presently nosing round looking for food. Two hours march in full
marching order makes men hungry, and hungry men are ardent explorers.
The dry and wet canteens faced one another, and each was capable of
accommodating a hundred men. Never were canteens crowded so quickly,
never have hundreds of the hungry and drouthy clamoured so eagerly for
admission as on that day. But time worked marvels; at the end of an
hour we fell in again outside a vast amount of victuals, and the
sea-sickness of the previous night, and the strain of the morning's
march were things over which now we could be humorously reminiscent.
Sheepskin jackets, the winter uniform of the trenches, were served out
to us, and all were tried on. They smelt of something chemical and
unpleasant, but were very warm and quite polar in appearance.
"Wish my mother could see me now," Bill the Cockney remarked. "My, she
wouldn't think me 'alf a cove. It's a balmy. I discovered the (p. 021)
South Pole, I'm thinkin'."
"More like you're up the pole!" some one cut in, then continued, "If
they saw us at St. Albans[1] now! Bet yer they wouldn't say as we're
for home service."
[Footnote 1: It was at St. Albans that we underwent
most of our training.]
That night we slept in bell-tents, fourteen men in each, packed tight
as herrings in a barrel, our feet festooning the base of the central
pole, our heads against the lower rim of the canvas covering. Movement
was almost an impossibility; a leg drawn tight in a cramp disturbed
the whole fabric of slumbering humanity; the man who turned round came
in for a shower of maledictions. In short, fourteen men lying down in
a bell-tent cannot agree for very long, and a bell-tent is not a
paradise of sympathy and mutual agreement.
We rose early, washed and shaved, and found our way to the canteen, a
big marquee under the control of the Expeditionary Force, where bread
and butter, bacon and tea were served out for breakfast. Soldiers
recovering from wounds worked as waiters, and told, when they had a
moment to spare, of hair-breadth adventures in the trenches. They (p. 022)
found us willing listeners; they had lived for long in the locality
for which we were bound, and the whole raw regiment had a personal
interest in the narratives of the wounded men. Bayonet-charges were
discussed.
"I've been in three of 'em," remarked a quiet, inoffensive-looking
youth who was sweeping the floor of the room. "They were a bit 'ot,
but nothin' much to write 'ome about. Not like a picture in the
papers, none of them wasn't. Not much stickin' of men. You just ops
out of your trench and rush and roar, like 'ell. The Germans fire and
then run off, and it's all over."
After breakfast feet were inspected by the medical officer. We sat
down on our packs in the parade ground, took off our boots, and
shivered with cold. The day was raw, the wind sharp and penetrating;
we forgot that our sheepskins smelt vilely, and snuggled into them,
glad of their warmth. The M.O. asked questions: "Do your boots pinch?"
"Any blisters?" "Do you wear two pairs of socks?" &c., &c. Two
thousand feet passed muster, and boots were put on again.
The quartermaster's stores claimed our attention afterwards, and (p. 023)
the attendants there were almost uncannily kind. "Are you sure you've
got everything you want?" they asked us. "There mayn't be a chance to
get fitted up after this." Socks, pull-throughs, overcoats, regimental
buttons, badges, hats, tunics, oil-bottles, gloves, puttees, and laces
littered the floor and were piled on the benches. We took what we
required; no one superintended our selection.
At St. Albans, where we had been turned into soldiers, we often stood
for hours waiting until the quartermaster chose to give us a few
inches of rifle-rag; here a full uniform could be obtained by picking
it up. And our men were wise in selecting only necessities; they still
remembered the march of the day before. All took sparingly and chose
wisely. Fancy socks were passed by in silence, the homely woollen
article, however, was in great demand. Bond Street was forgotten. The
"nut" was a being of a past age, or, if he still existed, he was
undergoing a complete transformation. Also he knew what socks were
best for the trenches.
At noon we were again ready to set out on our journey. A tin of
bully-beef and six biscuits, hard as rocks, were given to each man (p. 024)
prior to departure. Sheepskins were rolled into shape and fastened on
the tops of our packs, and with this additional burden on the shoulder
we set out from the rest-camp and took our course down the hill. On
the way we met another regiment coming up to fill our place, to sleep
in our bell-tents, pick from the socks which we had left behind, and
to meet for once, the first and last time perhaps, a quartermaster who
is really kind in the discharge of his professional duties. We marched
off, and sang our way into the town and station. Our trucks were
already waiting, an endless number they seemed lined up in the siding
with an engine in front and rear, and the notice "Hommes 40 chevaux
20" in white letters on every door. The night before I had slept in a
bell-tent where a man's head pointed to each seam in the canvas,
to-night it seemed as if I should sleep, if that were possible, in a
still more crowded place, where we had now barely standing room, and
where it was difficult to move about. But a much-desired relief came
before the train started, spare waggons were shunted on, and a number
of men were taken from each compartment and given room elsewhere. (p. 025)
In fact, when we moved off we had only twenty-two soldiers in our
place, quite enough though when our equipment, pack, rifle, bayonet,
haversack, overcoat, and sheepskin tunic were taken into account.
A bale of hay bound with wire was given to us for bedding, and
bully-beef, slightly flavoured, and biscuits were doled out for
rations. Some of us bought oranges, which were very dear, and paid
three halfpence apiece for them; chocolate was also obtained, and one
or two adventurous spirits stole out to the street, contrary to
orders, and bought _café au lait_ and _pain et beurre_, drank the
first in the _estaminet_, and came back to their trucks munching the
latter.
At noon we started out on the journey to the trenches, a gay party
that found expression for its young vitality in song. The
sliding-doors and the windows were open; those of us who were not
looking out of the one were looking out of the other. To most it was a
new country, a place far away in peace and a favourite resort of the
wealthy; but now a country that called for any man, no matter how
poor, if he were strong in person and willing to give his life away
when called upon to do so. In fact, the poor man was having his first
holiday on the Continent, and alas!--perhaps his last; and like (p. 026)
cattle new to the pasture fields in Spring, we were surging full of
life and animal gaiety.
We were out on a great adventure, full of thrill and excitement; the
curtain which surrounded our private life was being lifted; we stood
on the threshold of momentous events. The cottagers who laboured by
their humble homes stood for a moment and watched our train go by; now
and again a woman shouted out a blessing on our mission, and ancient
men seated by their doorsteps pointed in the direction our train was
going, and drew lean, skinny hands across their throats, and yelled
advice and imprecations in hoarse voices. We understood. The ancient
warriors ordered us to cut the Kaiser's throat and envied us the job.
The day wore on, the evening fell dark and stormy. A cold wind from
somewhere swept in through chinks in windows and door, and chilled the
compartment. The favourite song, _Uncle Joe_, with its catching
chorus,
When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo,
Eberybody starts aswayin to and fro,
Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor,
Yellin' "Uncle Joe, give us more! give us more!"
died away into a melancholy whimper. Sometimes one of the men would
rise, open the window and look out at a passing hamlet, where (p. 027)
lights glimmered in the houses and heavy waggons lumbered along the
uneven streets, whistle an air into the darkness and close the window
again. My mate had an electric torch--by its light we opened the
biscuit box handed in when we left the station, and biscuits and
bully-beef served to make a rather comfortless supper. At ten o'clock,
when the torch refused to burn, and when we found ourselves short of
matches, we undid the bale, spread out the hay on the floor of the
truck and lay down, wearing our sheepskin tunics and placing our
overcoats over our legs.
We must have been asleep for some time. We were awakened by the
stopping of the train and the sound of many voices outside. The door
was opened and we looked out. An officer was hurrying by, shouting
loudly, calling on us to come out. On a level space bordering the line
a dozen or more fires were blazing merrily, and dixies with some
boiling liquid were being carried backwards and forwards. A sergeant
with a lantern, one of our own men, came to our truck and clambered
inside.
"Every man get his mess tin," he shouted. "Hurry up, the train's not
stopping for long, and there's coffee and rum for us all." (p. 028)
"I wish they'd let us sleep," someone who was fumbling in his pack
remarked in a sleepy voice. "I'm not wantin' no rum and cawfee. Last
night almost choked in the bell-tent, the night before sea-sick, and
now wakened up for rum and cawfee. Blast it, I say!"
We lined up two deep on the six-foot way, shivering in the bitter
cold, our mess-tins in our hands. The fires by the railway threw a dim
light on the scene, officers paraded up and down issuing orders,
everybody seemed very excited, and nearly all were grumbling at being
awakened from their beds in the horse-trucks. Many of our mates were
now coming back with mess-tins steaming hot, and some would come to a
halt for a moment and sip from their rum and coffee. Chilled to the
bone we drew nearer to the coffee dixies. What a warm drink it would
be! I counted the men in front--there were no more than twelve or
thirteen before me. Ah! how cold! and hot coffee--suddenly a whistle
was blown, then another.
"Back to your places!" the order came, and never did a more unwilling
party go back to bed. We did not learn the reason for the order; (p. 029)
in the army few explanations are made. We shivered and slumbered till
dawn, and rose to greet a cheerless day that offered us biscuits and
bully-beef for breakfast and bully-beef and biscuits for dinner. At
half-past four in the afternoon we came to a village and formed into
column of route outside the railway station. Two hours march lay
before us we learned, but we did not know where we were bound. As we
waited ready to move off a sound, ominous and threatening, rumbled in
from the distance and quivered by our ears. We were hearing the sound
of guns!