I
There is a certain type of English country-house female who is said to
"live in her boxes." That is to say, she appears to possess no home of
her own, but flits from one indulgent roof-tree to another; and owing
to the fact that she is invariably put into a bedroom whose wardrobe
is full of her hostess's superannuated ball-frocks and winter furs,
never knows what it is to have all her "things" unpacked at once.
Well, we out here cannot be said to live in our boxes, for we do not
possess any; but we do most undoubtedly live in our haversacks and
packs. And this brings us to the matter in hand--namely, so-called
"Rest-Billets." The whole of the hinterland of this great trench-line
is full of tired men, seeking for a place to lie down in, and living
in their boxes when they find one.
At present we are indulging in such a period of repose; and we venture
to think that on the whole we have earned it. Our last rest was in
high summer, when we lay about under an August sun in the district
round Béthune, and called down curses upon all flying and creeping
insects. Since then we have undergone certain so-called "operations"
in the neighbourhood of Loos, and have put in three months in the
Salient of Ypres. As that devout adherent of the Roman faith, Private
Reilly, of "B" Company, put it to his spiritual adviser--
"I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Purgatory for this, father!"
We came out of the Salient just before Christmas, in the midst of the
mutual unpleasantness arising out of the grand attack upon the British
line which was to have done so much to restore the waning confidence
of the Hun. It was meant to be a big affair--a most majestic victory,
in fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, and our new shells
paralysed the attack; so the Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still,
as I say, there was considerable unpleasantness all round; and we were
escorted upon our homeward way, from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and
from Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry and disappointed
shells.
Next day we found ourselves many miles behind the firing-line, once
more in France, with a whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably
conscious that one could walk round a corner or look over a wall
without preliminary reconnaissance or subsequent extirpation.
As for the holiday itself, unreasonable persons are not lacking to
point out that it is of the busman's variety. It is true that we
are no longer face to face with the foe, but we--or rather, the
authorities--make believe that we are. We wage mimic warfare in full
marching order; we fire rifles and machine-guns upon improvised
ranges; we perform hazardous feats with bombs and a dummy trench. More
galling still, we are back in the region of squad-drill, physical
exercises, and handling of arms--horrors of our childhood which we
thought had been left safely interned at Aldershot.
But the authorities are wise. The regiment is stiff and out of
condition: it is suffering from moral and intellectual "trench-feet."
Heavy drafts have introduced a large and untempered element into our
composition. Many of the subalterns are obviously "new-jined"--as the
shrewd old lady of Ayr once observed of the rubicund gentleman at
the temperance meeting. Their men hardly know them or one another by
sight. The regiment must be moulded anew, and its lustre restored by
the beneficent process vulgarly known as "spit and polish." So every
morning we apply ourselves with thoroughness, if not enthusiasm, to
tasks which remind us of last winter's training upon the Hampshire
chalk.
But the afternoon and evening are a different story altogether. If we
were busy in the morning, we are busier still for the rest of the day.
There is football galore, for we have to get through a complete
series of Divisional cup-ties in four weeks. There is also a Brigade
boxing-tournament. (No, that was not where Private Tosh got his black
eye: that is a souvenir of New Year's Eve.) There are entertainments
of various kinds in the recreation-tent. This whistling platoon, with
towels round their necks, are on their way to the nearest convent, or
asylum, or École des Jeunes Filles--have no fear; these establishments
are untenanted!--for a bath. There, in addition to the pleasures of
ablution, they will receive a partial change of raiment.
Other signs of regeneration are visible. That mysterious-looking
vehicle, rather resembling one of the early locomotives exhibited
in the South Kensington Museum, standing in the mud outside a
farm-billet, its superheated interior stuffed with "C" Company's
blankets, is performing an unmentionable but beneficent work.
Buttons are resuming their polish; the pattern of our kilts is
emerging from its superficial crust; and Church Parade is once more
becoming quite a show affair.
Away to the east the guns still thunder, and at night the star-shells
float tremblingly up over the distant horizon. But not for us. Not
yet, that is. In a few weeks' time we shall be back in another part of
the line. Till then--Company drill and Cup-Ties! _Carpe diem!_