I
We are getting into our stride again. Two months ago we trudged
into Béthune, gaunt, dirty, soaked to the skin, and reduced to a
comparative handful. None of us had had his clothes off for a week.
Our ankle-puttees had long dropped to pieces, and our hose-tops,
having worked under the soles of our boots, had been cut away and
discarded. The result was a bare and mud-splashed expanse of leg from
boot to kilt, except in the case of the enterprising few who had
devised artistic spat-puttees out of an old sandbag. Our headgear
consisted in a few cases of the regulation Balmoral bonnet, usually
minus "toorie" and badge; in a few more, of the battered remains of a
gas helmet; and in the great majority, of a woollen cap-comforter. We
were bearded like that incomparable fighter, the _poilu_, and we were
separated by an abyss of years, so our stomachs told us, from our last
square meal.
But we were wonderfully placid about it all. Our regimental pipers,
who had come out to play us in, were making what the Psalmist calls
"a joyful noise" in front; and behind us lay the recollection of a
battle, still raging, in which we had struck the first blow, and borne
our full share for three days and nights. Moreover, our particular
blow had bitten deeper into the enemy's line than any other blow in
the neighbourhood. And, most blessed thought of all, everything was
over, and we were going back to rest. For the moment, the memory of
the sights we had seen, and the tax we had levied upon our bodies and
souls, together with the picture of the countless sturdy lads whom
we had left lying beneath the sinister shade of Fosse Eight, were
beneficently obscured by the prospect of food, sleep, and comparative
cleanliness.
After restoring ourselves to our personal comforts, we should
doubtless go somewhere to refit. Drafts were already waiting at the
Base to fill up the great gaps in our ranks. Our companies having been
brought up to strength, a spate of promotions would follow. We had no
Colonel, and only our Company Commander. Subalterns--what was left
of them--would come by their own. N.C.O.'s, again, would have to be
created by the dozen. While all this was going on, and the old names
were being weeded out of the muster-roll to make way for the new, the
Quartermaster would be drawing fresh equipment--packs, mess-tins,
water-bottles, and the hundred oddments which always go astray in
times of stress. There would be a good deal of dialogue of this
sort:--
"Private M'Sumph, I see you are down for a new pack. Where is your old
one?"
"Blawn off ma back, sirr!"
"Where are your puttees?"
"Blawn off ma feet, sirr!"
"Where is your iron ration?"
"Blawn oot o' ma pooch, sirr!"
"Where is your head?"
"Blawn--I beg your pardon, sirr!"--followed by generous reissues all
round.
After a month or so our beloved regiment, once more at full strength,
with traditions and morale annealed by the fires of experience, would
take its rightful place in the forefront of "K (1)."
Such was the immediate future, as it presented itself to the wearied
but optimistic brain of Lieutenant Bobby Little. He communicated his
theories to Captain Wagstaffe.
"I wonder!" replied that experienced officer.