We crawled out of our bunks just as dawn was breaking upon a new world
for us, and went on deck, where we saw, on a cliff, "Spratt's Dog Food"
printed in large white letters on a black background. Unpoetic and
unromantic indeed was this first sight of England.
Here was where the "weary waiting" began, as we waited for the first
transport to unload its human cargo. Old man "bon chance" was with us
for the time being, for we were the second to dock. We stood on the
deck, complying with the English boys request "'ave you any coins" by
tossing them all the pennies we had. The men on the port side were first
ordered to fall in, and then those on the starboard side, for the
purpose of finding out if any of us had fallen overboard during our
journey. Finally, half walking and half sliding, down the gang-plank, we
stood on what was to us real land, only it was but one of the many
floating docks of England.
On the side of the main street, Y. M. C. A. signs were seen, and
incidentally three live American girls, who were soon serving the
"to-be-heroes" with hot coffee, buns and cookies. Although they were war
buns and war cookies, without sugar, we enjoyed them to the utmost.
A large, stately policeman stood guarding the gates to the street and
the docks. Some of us, wondering what was on the other side of the gate,
climbed up and peered over on a large, beautifully designed square,
which was crowded with women and children. But, alas, we were in a big
hurry, and did not get to parade before them, or to receive the embraces
and kisses which we were told awaited us. The R. T. O.'s (Railway
Transportation Officers) crowded us into a "miniature train," like the
ones seen in the parks in "God's Country," and we were soon on our way.
We rode across streets and through buildings just like a runaway engine
might do. All the time pretty girls, dressed in overalls, waved at us
from factory windows. After numerous stops, and more tunnels, we passed
through the suburbs, traveling at a speed which did not seem possible
from the looks of the engine.
We will never forget the beauty of the English villages, nestled snugly
between green hills, or the soothing effect of the winding brooks which
spread their cool waters over the well kept gardens.
Three or four times the train stopped to take on water (or perhaps at
the command of the "top-cutter" in order to give the boys a chance to
open another can of "bully beef"). About midnight we grew weary of
sitting in our little compartments, and having cosmopolitan ideas, we
proceeded to make ourselves "at home." Some were packed upon the baggage
racks and managed to get a little sleep,--being used to the bunks on the
boat, it was not difficult to adjust ourselves to this situation.
Sometime early in the morning we were awakened by a pounding at the
door, and thinking it was a fire call, or submarine drill, one chap
immediately began to feel around for his life-belt. He stuck his fist in
somebody's eye, and was soon told by that unfortunate person just where
he was. We fell in at the side of our "vest pocket edition of a train"
and marched off, and just as the sun was about to show his face, we
arrived at Camp Woodley, Romsey, England. After waiting for sometime to
be assigned to tents, which resembled a miniature Billy Sunday
tabernacle, we stretched our tired bodies on the soft pine boards and
listened intently for the "roar of cannon." Hearing nothing but the
songs of the birds, we decided that an armistice had been declared and
proceeded to make up for all the "couchey" we had lost.
We had always been told that England was famous for her bounteous feeds,
and after all the bully beef we had consumed for our "Uncle," we thought
we were entitled to one of those dinners of roast suckling pig and plum
pudding. But alas, we were badly disappointed, because in place of the
former we had a piece of cheese, the size of which wouldn't be an
inducement even to a starved rat, and in place of the latter, we ate a
bit of salt pork.
During our brief stay at Camp Woodley, we visited many historical
buildings and places. Among these was the old Abbey at Romsey, built in
the eleventh century, the walls of which plainly showed the ball marks
of Oliver Cromwell's siege against it. The pews in the Abbey were the
same old benches of old, and the altar was the work of an ancient
artist. Around the walls were carved the epitaphs and names of those who
were buried in its stately walls. Along with the tombs of the old
forefathers who had fought with the armor and lance were the tombs of
the late heroes, who fought with the methods of modern times. We signed
our names in the visitors book, along with King George and Ex-Kaiser
Wilhelm.
Our hikes in the morning were enjoyed by everyone, over well kept roads
shaded from the hot sun by large over-hanging trees, the same old trees
and the same old Sherwood forest that Robin Hood knew so well. But as
Roger Knight says, "You can't _eat_ scenery!"
After an enjoyable five days, spent in doing nothing much, we donned our
packs again and started for the Channel, a distance of twelve miles.
While walking thru the streets of Southampton, our throats parched and
our feet sore, we were cheered time and again by the women and children,
and many ran alongside of the marching column serving us cool water. We
sighed as we had to pass Ale Shops just as if they weren't there. About
noon we stopped at a Base Hospital to eat our picnic luncheon--(Bully
beef).
Our first big thrill of "La Guerre" came when we saw some real live
Boche prisoners working on the roads. We watched them as a little boy
watches the elephant at the circus. One of the boys asked them, in
German, how they liked England, and they said they liked it much better
than fighting.
After our slight repast, we again took up our yoke, and did one hundred
and twenty per until we reached the docks at Southampton.