PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE
One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral
town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki.
Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture
alone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in a
body when led by a commissioned officer.
The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by this
narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now
visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. The
housemaid from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to come
to their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town are
single, and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that five
or six thousand maidens blush to hear the old, old story within the
two-mile limit every week-end.
Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and then
he has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of
3 p.m. on Saturday and 10 p.m. on Sunday. His pass states that during
this time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men use
one pass for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit every
occasion.
One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled from
London by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my division,
and only one-half of these had true passes; one, who was an adept
calligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a counterfeit signature
of the superior who should have signed the form of leave. Another had
altered the dates of an early pass so cleverly that it was difficult
to detect the erasure, and a number of men had no passes whatsoever.
These boasted of having travelled to London every week-end, and they
had never been caught napping.
Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to
which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this,
and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawled
under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they lay
quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with
several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deign
to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible from
the platform window.
"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket
jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure
in khaki fumbled with the door handle.
"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket,
entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, the
one he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspection
he slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in the
space of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the forged permit of
leave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on the
racks were not detected.
Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets,
the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by the
platform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to see
their loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place at
the station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men to
see their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege and
took train to London when they got on the platform, these kind actions
have now become merely a pleasing memory.
Pickets seem to crop up everywhere; on one bus ride to London, a
journey of twenty miles, I have been asked to show my pass three
times, and on a return journey by train I have had to produce the
written permit on five occasions. But some units of our divisions soar
above these petty inconveniences, as do two brothers who motor home
every Sunday when church parade comes to an end.
When these two leave church after divine service, a car waits them at
the nearest street corner, and they slip into it, don trilby hats and
civilian overcoats, and sweep outside the restricted area at a haste
that causes the slow-witted country policeman to puzzle over the speed
of the car and forget its number while groping for his pocket-book.
It has always been a pleasure to me to follow for hours the winding
country roads looking out for fresh scenes and new adventures. The
life of the roadside dwellers, the folk who live in little stone
houses and show two flower-pots and a birdcage in their windows, has
a strange fascination for me. When I took up my abode here and got my
first free Sunday afternoon, I shook military discipline aside for a
moment and set out on one of my rambles.
There comes a moment on a journey when something sweet, something
irresistible and charming as wine raised to thirsty lips, wells up in
the traveller's being. I have never striven to analyse this feeling or
study the moment when it comes, and that feeling has been often mine.
Now I know the moment it floods the soul of the traveller. It is at
the end of the second mile, when the limbs warm to their work and the
lungs fill with the fresh country air. At such a moment, when a man
naturally forgets restraint to which he has only been accustomed for
a short while, I met the picket for the first time. He told me to
turn--and I went back. But it was not in my heart to like that picket,
and I shall never like him while he stands there, sentry of the
two-mile limit; an ogre denying me entrance into the wide world that
lies beyond.
There is one thing, however, before which the picket is impotent--a
pass. It is like a free pardon to a convict; it opens to him the whole
world--that is for the period it covers. The two most difficult things
in military life are to obtain permit of absence from billets, and the
struggle against the natural impulse to overstay the limit of leave.
There are times when soldiers experience an intense longing to see
their own homes, firesides, and friends, and in moments like these it
takes a stiff fight to overcome the desire to go away, if only for a
little while, to their native haunts. Only once in five weeks may a
man obtain a week-end pass--if he is lucky. To the soldier, luck is
merely another word for skill.
With us, the rifleman who scores six successive "bulls" at six hundred
yards on the open range has been lucky; if he speaks nicely to the
quartermaster and obtains the best pair of boots in the stores, he has
been lucky; if by mistake he is given double rations by the fatigue
party he is lucky; but if the same man, sweating over his rifle in
a carnival of "wash-outs," or, weary of blistered feet and empty
stomach, asks for sympathy because his rifle was sighted too low or
because he lost his dinner while waiting on boot-parade, we explain
that his woes are due to a caper of chance--that he has been unlucky.
To obtain a pass at any time a man must be lucky; obtaining one when
he desires it most is a thing heard of now and again, and getting a
pass and not being able to use it is of common occurrence. Now, when I
applied for special leave I was more than a little lucky.
It was necessary that I should attend to business in London, and I set
about making application for a permit of leave. I intended to apply
for a pass dating from 6 p.m. of a Friday evening to 10 p.m. of the
following Sunday. On Wednesday morning I spoke to a corporal of my
company.
"If you want leave, see the platoon sergeant," he told me. The platoon
sergeant, who was in a bad temper, spoke harshly when I approached
him. "No business of mine!" he said; "the company clerk will look into
the matter."
But I had no success with the company clerk; the leave which I desired
was a special one, and that did not come under his jurisdiction. "The
orderly sergeant knows more about this business than I do. Go to him
about it," he said.
By Wednesday evening I spoke to the orderly sergeant, who looked
puzzled for a moment. "Come with me to the lieutenant," he said.
"He'll know more about this matter than I do, and he'll see into it.
But it will be difficult to get special leave, you know; they don't
like to give it."
"Why?" I asked.
"Why?" he repeated; "what the devil does it matter to you? You're paid
here to do what you're told, not to ask questions."
The lieutenant was courteous and civil. "I can't do anything in the
matter," he said. "The orderly sergeant will take you to the company
officer, Captain ----, and he'll maybe do something for you."
"If you're lucky," said the sergeant in a low whisper. About eight
o'clock in the evening I paraded in the long, dimly-lighted passage
that leads to our company orderly-room, and there I had to wait two
hours while the captain was conducting affairs of some kind or another
inside. When the door was opened I was ordered inside.
"Quick march! Left turn! Halt!" ordered the sergeant as I crossed the
threshold, and presently I found myself face to face with our company
commander, who was sitting by a desk with a pile of papers before him.
"What is it?" he asked, fixing a pair of stern eyes on me, and I
explained my business with all possible despatch.
"Of course you understand that everything is now subservient to your
military duties; they take premier place in your new life," said the
officer. "But I'll see what I can do. By myself I am of little help.
However, you can write out a pass telling the length of time you
require off duty, and I'll lay it before the proper authorities."
I wrote out the "special pass," which ran as follows:
"Rifleman ---- has permission to be absent from his quarters from
6 p.m. (date) to 10 p.m. (date), for the purpose of proceeding to
London."
I came in from a long march on Thursday evening to find the pass
signed, stamped, and ready. On the following night I could go to
London, and I spent the evening 'phoning, wiring, and writing to town,
arranging matters for the day ahead. Also, I asked some friends to
have dinner with me at seven o'clock on Friday night.
Next day we had divisional exercise, which is usually a lengthy
affair. In the morning I approached the officer and asked if I might
be allowed off parade, seeing I had to set out for London at six
o'clock in the evening.
"Oh! we shall be back early," I was told, "back about three or
thereabouts."
The day was very interesting; the whole division, thousands of men,
numberless horses, a regiment of artillery, and all baggage and
munition for military use took up position in battle formation. In
front lay an imaginary army, and we had to cross a river to come
into contact with it. Engineers, under cover of the artillery,
built pontoon bridges for our crossing; on the whole an intensely
interesting and novel experience. So interesting indeed that I lost
all count of time, and only came to consciousness of the clock and
remembrance of friends making ready for dinner when some one remarked
that the hour of four had passed, and that we were still five miles
from home.
I got to my billet at six; there I flung off my pack, threw down my
rifle, and in frenzied haste consulted a railway timetable. A slow
train was due to leave our town at five minutes to seven. I arranged
my papers, made a brief review of matters which would come before me
later, and with muddy boots and heavy heart I arrived at the station
at seven minutes to seven and took the slow train for London.
When I told the story of my adventures at dinner a soldier friend
remarked: "You've been more than a little lucky in getting away at
all. I was very unlucky when I applied--"
But his story was a long one, and I have forgotten it.