WORKING-PARTIES
“Fall in the brick-party.”
The six privates awoke from a state of inert dreaming, or lolling
against the barn that flanked the gateway of battalion headquarters, to
stand in two rows of three and await orders. At last the A.S.C. lorry
had turned up, an hour late, and while it turned round I despatched
one of the privates to our transport to get six sand-bags. By the time
he returned the lorry had performed its about-wheel, and, all aboard,
myself in front and the six behind, we are off for C----.
We pass through Béthune. As we approach through the suburbs, we rattle
past motor despatch riders, A.S.C. lorries, Red Cross carts, columns
of transport horses being exercised, officers on horse-back, officers
in motor-cars, small unarmed fatigue parties, battalions on the march;
then there are carts carrying bricks, French postmen on bicycles,
French navvies in blue uniforms repairing the road, innumerable peasant
traps, coal waggons, women with baskets, and children of course
everywhere. “Business as usual”--yet, but for a line of men not so
many miles away the place would be a desolate ruin like the towns and
villages that chance has doomed to be in the firing-line.
So I moralise. Not so the Tommies, sprawling behind, inside the lorry,
and caring not a jot for anything save that they are on a “cushy” or
soft job, as the rest of the battalion are doing four hours’ digging
under R.E. supervision. A good thing to be a Tommy, to be told to fall
in here or there, and not to know whether it is for a bayonet-charge,
or a job of carting earth!
“Bang--Bang-bang.” We are nearing the firing-line, having left Béthune,
where military police stand at every corner directing the traffic with
flags, one road “up,” another “down”: we are once more within the
noisy but invisible chain of batteries. “Lorries 6 miles per hour.”
The shell-holes in the road, roughly filled with stones, would make
quicker going impossible anyhow. We are entering C----, and I keep an
eagle eye open for ruined houses, and soon stop by a house with two
walls and half a roof. Out come the six Tommies and proceed to fill a
sand-bag each with bricks and empty it into the lorry. The supply is
inexhaustible, and in half an hour the A.S.C. corporal refuses to take
more, declaring we have the regulation three-ton load, so I stop work
and prepare to depart.
The corporal, however, has heard of a sister-lorry near by, which has
unfortunately slipped into a ditch and, so to speak, sprained its
ankle. Though extraordinarily unromantic in appearance, the corporal
shows himself imbued with a spirit of knight errantry, and, having
obtained my permission to rescue the fair damsel, sets off for what he
declares cannot take more than ten minutes. As I thought the process
would take probably more like twenty minutes, I let the men repair
to a house on the opposite side of the road, where was a rather more
undamaged piece of roof than usual (it was now raining), and myself
explored the place I happened to be in.
Occasionally, at home one comes across a deserted cottage in the
country; a most desolate spirit pervades the place. Imagine, then, what
it is like in these villages half a mile or a mile behind what has been
the firing-line for now twelve months. A few steps off the main road
brought me into what had formerly been a small garden belonging to a
farm. There had been a red-brick wall all along the north side with
fruit trees trained along it. Now, the wall was mostly a rubble-heap,
and the fruit trees dead. One sickly pear tree struggled to exist
in a crumpled sort of heap, but its wilted leaves only added to the
desolation of the scene. An iron gate, between red brick pillars,
was still standing, strangely enough; but the little lawn was run to
waste, and had a crater in the middle of it about five feet across,
inside of which was some disintegrating animal, also empty tins, and
other refuse. Trees were broken, weeds were everywhere. I tried to
reconstruct the place in my imagination, but it was a chaotic tangle.
I came across a few belated raspberries, and picked one or two; they
were tasteless and watery. Rubbish and broken glass were strewn
everywhere. It was a dreary sight in the grey rain; the only sign of
life a few chattering blue-tits.
The house was an utter ruin, only a ground-room wall left standing;
some of the outhouses had not suffered so much, but all the roofs were
gone. I saw a rusty mangle staring forlornly out of a heap of débris;
and a manger and hayrack showed what had been a stable. The pond was
just near, too, and gradually I could piece together the various
elements of the farm. Who the owners were I vaguely wondered; perhaps
they will return after the war; but I doubt if they could make much
of the old ruins. These villages will most likely remain a blighted
area for years, like the villages reclaimed by the jungle. Already the
virginia creeper and woodbine are trying to cover the ugliness....
The Tommies meanwhile had been smoking Gold Flakes, and one or two had
also been exploring; one had discovered a child’s elementary botany
book, and was studying the illustrations when I came up. Our combined
view now was “Where is the lorry?” and this view held the field, with
increasing curiosity, annoyance, and vituperation, for one solid hour
and a half. It was dinner-time, and a common bond of hunger held us,
until at last in exasperation I marched half the party in quest of our
errant conveyance. I was thoroughly annoyed with the gallant corporal.
Three-quarters of a mile away I found the two lorries. My little
corporal had rescued his lorn princess, but she, being a buxom wench,
had brought her rescuer into like predicament! And so we came up just
in time to see the rescue of _our_ lorry from the treacherous ditch! I
felt I could not curse, especially as the little corporal had winded
himself somehow in the stomach during the last bout. It had been a
feeble show; yet there was the lorry, and in it the bricks, on to which
the fellows climbed deliberately as men who recover a lost prize. And
so we arrived at our transport (the bricks were for a horse-stand in a
muddy yard) at half-past two; after which I dismissed the party to its
belated dinner.
The above incident hardly deserves a place in a chapter headed
“working-parties,” being in almost every respect different from any
other I have ever conducted. I think the “working-party” is realised
less than anything else in this war by those who have not been at the
front. It does not appeal to the imagination. Yet it is essential to
realise, if one wants to know what this war is like, the amount of
sheer dogged labour performed by the infantry in digging, draining, and
improving trenches.
The “working-party” usually consists of seventy to a hundred men from a
company, with either one or two officers. The Brigadier going round the
trenches finds a communication trench falling in, and about a foot of
mud at the bottom. “Get a working-party on to this at once,” he says to
his Staff Captain. The Staff Captain consults one of the R.E. officers,
and a note is sent to the Adjutant of one of the two battalions in
billets: “Your battalion will provide a working party of ... officers
... full ranks (sergeants and corporals) and ... other ranks to-morrow.
Report to Lt. ..., R.E., at ... at 5.0 p.m. to-morrow for work on ...
Trench. Tools will be provided.” The Staff Captain then dismisses the
matter from his head. The Adjutant then sends the same note to one or
more of the four company commanders, detailing the number of men to be
sent by the companies specified by him. (He is scrupulously careful to
divide work equally between the companies, by the way.) The company
commander on receiving the note curses volubly, declares it a “d--d
shame the hardest worked battalion in the brigade can’t be allowed
a moment’s rest, feels sure the men will mutiny one of these days,”
etc., summons the orderly, who is frowsting in the next room with the
officers’ servants, and says, “Take this to the sergeant-major,” after
scribbling on the note “Parade outside Company H.Q. 3.30 p.m.,” and
adding, as the orderly departs, “Might tell the quartermaster-sergeant
I want to see him.” Meanwhile the three subalterns are extraordinarily
engrossed in their various occupations, until the company commander
boldly states that it is “rotten luck, but he supposes as So-and-so
took the last, it is So-and-so’s turn, isn’t it?” and details the
officers; if they are new officers he tells them the sergeants will
know exactly what to do, and if they are old hands he tells them
nothing whatever. The “quarter” (company quartermaster-sergeant) then
arrives, and is told the party will not be back, probably, till 10.0
p.m., and will he make sure, please, that hot soup is ready for the men
on return, and also dry socks if it turns out wet; he is then given a
drink, and the company commander’s work is finished.
Meanwhile the company sergeant-major has received the orders from
the orderly, and summons unto him the orderly-sergeant, and from his
“roster,” or roll, ticks off the men and N.C.O.’s to be warned for
the working party. This the orderly-sergeant does by going round
to the various barns and personally reading out each man’s name,
and on getting the answer, saying, “You’re for working party, 3.15
to-day.” The exact nature of the remarks when he is gone are beyond
my province. Only, as an officer taking the party, one knows that
at 3.25 p.m. the senior sergeant calls the two lines of waiting
“other ranks” to attention, and with a slap on his rifle, announces
“Working-party present, Sir,” as you stroll up. Working-parties are
dressed in “musketry order” usually--that is to say, with equipment,
but no packs; rifles and ammunition, of course, and waterproof sheets
rolled and fastened to the webbing belt. The officer then tells the
sergeant to “stand them easy,” while he asks one or two questions, and
looks once more at “orders” which the senior sergeant has probably
brought on parade, and at 3.30, with a “Company-Shern! Slo-o-ope hip!
Right-in-fours: form-fórs! Right! By the right, Quick _march_!” leads
off his party, giving “March at _ease_, march-easy!” almost in one
breath as soon as he rounds the corner. Then there is a hitching of
rifles to the favourite position, and a buzz of remarks and whistles
and song behind, while the sergeant edges up to the officer or the
officer edges back to the sergeant, according to their degree of
intimacy, and the working-party is on its way.
One working-party I remember very well. We were in billets at ----, and
really tired out. It was Nov. 6th, and on looking up my letters I find
our movements for the last week had been as follows:
Oct. 29th. 9.0 a.m. Moved off from billets.
12.0 midday. Lunch.
3.0 p.m. Arrived in front trenches.
Oct. 30th. Front trenches.
Oct. 31st. Front trenches.
Nov. 1st. Relieved at 3.0 p.m. (The Devons
were very late relieving us, owing to
bad rain and mud.)
5.30 p.m. Reached billets.
Nov. 2nd. Rain all day. Morning spent by men
in trying to clean up. Afternoon,
baths.
Nov. 3rd. 9.0 a.m. Started off for trenches
again. It had rained incessantly.
Mud terrible.
1.0 p.m. Arrived in front trenches.
Nov. 4th. Front trenches. Rained all day.
Nov. 5th. 2.30 p.m. Relieved late again. Mud
colossal. Billets 5.0 p.m.
Nov. 6th. Morning. Cleaning up. Inspection by
C.O.
Afternoon. SUDDEN AND UNEXPECTED
WORKING-PARTY. 3.0 p.m.--11.0
p.m.!!
Yet I thoroughly enjoyed those eight hours, I remember. There were,
I suppose, about eighty N.C.O.’s and men from “B” Company. I was in
charge, with one other officer. We halted at a place whither the
“cooker” had been previously despatched, and where the men had their
tea. Luckily it was fine. The men sat about on lumps of trench-boards
and coils of barbed wire, for the place was an “R.E. Dump,” where a
large accumulation of R.E. stores of all description was to be found.
I apologised to the R.E. officer for keeping him a few minutes while
the men finished their tea; he, however, a second-lieutenant, was in
no hurry whatever, it seemed, and waited about a quarter of an hour
for us. Then I fell the men in, and they “drew tools,” so many men a
pick, so many a shovel (the usual proportion is one pick, two shovels),
and we splodged along through whitish clay of the stickiest calibre
in the gathering twilight. An R.E. corporal and two R.E. privates had
joined us mysteriously by now, as well as the second-lieutenant, and
crossing H---- Street we plunged down into a communication trench, and
started the long mazy grope. The R.E. corporal was guide. The trench
was all paved with trench-mats, but these were not “laid,” only “shoved
down” anyhow; consequently they wobbled, and one’s boot slipped off
the side into squelch, rubbing the ankle. Continually came up the
message from behind, “Lost touch, Sir!” This involved a wait--one, two
minutes--until the “All-up” or “All-in” came up. (One hears it coming
in a hoarse whisper, and starts before it actually arrives. Infinite
patience is necessary. R.E. officers are sometimes eager to go ahead;
but once lose the last ten men at night in an unknown trench, and it
may take three hours to find them.) The other officer was bringing up
the rear.
At last we reached our destination, and the R.E. officer and myself
told off the men to work along the trench. This particular work was
clearing what is known as a “berm,” that is, the flat strip of ground
between the edge of the trench and the thrown-up earth, each side of a
C.T. (communication trench).
When a trench is first dug, the earth is thrown up each side; the
recent rains were, however, causing the trenches to crumble in
everywhere, and the weight of the thrown-up earth was especially the
cause of this. Consequently, if the earth were cleared away a yard on
each side of the trench, and thrown further back, the trench would
probably be saved from falling in to any serious extent, and the light
labour of shovelling dry earth a yard or so back would be substituted
for the heart-breaking toil of throwing sloppy mud or sticky clay out
of a trench higher than yourself.
[Illustration]
The work to be done had been explained to the sergeants before we left
our starting-point. As we went along, the R.E. officer told off men
at ten or five yards’ interval, according to the amount of earth to
be moved. Each man stopped when told off, and the rest of the company
passed him. Sergeants and corporals stopped with their section or
platoon, and got the men started as soon as the last man of the company
had passed. At last up came the last man, sergeant, and the other
officer, and together we went back all along. The men were on top
(that is why the working-party was a night one); sometimes they had
not understood their orders and were doing something wrong (a slack
sergeant would then probably have to be routed out and told off). The
men worked like fun, of course, it being known, to every one’s joy,
that this was a piece-job, and that we went home as soon as it was
finished. There was absolute silence, except the sound of falling
earth, and an occasional chink of iron against stone; or a swish, and
muttered cursings, as a bit of trench fell in with a slide, dragging
a man with it; for it is not always easy to clear a yard-wide “berm”
without crumbling the trench-edge in. One would not think these men
were “worn out,” to see them working as no other men in the world can
work; for nearly every man was a miner. The novice will do only half
the work a trained miner will do, with the same effort.
Sometimes I was appealed to as to the “yard.” Was this wide enough? One
man had had an unlucky bit given him with a lot of extra earth from a
dug-out thrown on to the original lot. So I redivided the task. It is
amazing the way the time passes while going along a line of workers,
noticing, talking, correcting, praising. By the time I got to the first
men of the company, they were half-way through the task.
At last the job was finished. As many men as space allowed were put on
to help one section that somehow was behind; whether it was bad luck
in distribution or slack work no one knew or cared. The work must be
finished. The men wanted to smoke, but I would not let them; it was
too near the front trenches. And then I did a foolish thing, which
might have been disastrous! The R.E. corporal had remained, though the
officer had left long ago. The corporal was to act as guide back, and
this he was quite ready to do if I was not quite sure of the way. I,
however, felt sure of it, and as the corporal would be saved a long
tramp if he could go off to his dug-out direct without coming with us,
I foolishly said I had no need of him, and let him go. I then lost my
way completely. We had never been in that section before, and none of
the sergeants knew it. We had come from the “R.E. Dump,” and thither
we must return, leaving our tools on the way. But I had been told to
take the men to the Divisional Soup Kitchen first, which was about
four hundred yards north of X, the spot where we entered the C.T. and
which I was trying to find. For all I knew I was going miles in the
wrong direction. My only guide was the flares behind, which assured
me I was not walking to the Germans but away from them. The unknown
trenches began to excite among the sergeants the suspicion that all
was not well. But I took the most colossal risk of stating that I knew
perfectly well what I was doing, and strode on ahead.
There was silence behind after that, save for splashings and
splodgings. My heart misgave me that I was coming to undrained trenches
of the worst description, or to water-logged impasses! Still I
strode on, or waited interminable waits for the “All up” signal. At
last we reached houses, grim and black, new and awfully unknown. I
nearly tumbled down a cellar as a sentry challenged. I was preparing
for humble questions as to where we were, the nearest way to X, and
a possible joke to the sergeant (this joke had not materialised, and
seemed unlikely to be of the easiest), when I recovered myself from
the cellar, mounted some steps, and found myself on a road beside a
group of Tommies emerging from the Soup Kitchen! My star (the only one
visible, I believe, that inky night) had led me there direct! I said
nothing, as every one warmed up in spirits as well as bodies with that
excellent soup; and no one ever knew of the quailings of my heart along
those unknown trenches! To lead men wrong is always bad; but when they
are tired out it is unpardonable, and not quickly forgotten. As it was,
canteens were soon brimming with thick vegetable soup, filled from a
bubbling cauldron with a mighty ladle. In the hot room men glistened
and perspired, while a regular steam arose from muddied boots and
puttees; every one, from officer to latest joined private, was sipping
with dangerous avidity the boiling fluid. Many charges have been laid
against divisional staffs, but never a complaint have I heard against a
soup kitchen! So in good spirits we tramped along, and dumped our tools
in the place where we had found them. “Clank-clank, clank,” as spade
fell on spade. Then, “You may smoke” was passed down. The sergeant
reported “All correct, Sir!” and we tramped along in file. Soon the
bursts of song were swallowed up in a great whistling concert, and we
were all merry. The fit passed, and there was silence; then came the
singing again, which developed into hymns, and that took us into our
billets. Here we were greeted with the most abominable news of réveillé
at 5.0 a.m., but I think most of the men were too sleepy to hear it; we
two officers deplored our fate while eating a supper set out for us in
a greenhouse, our temporary mess-room!
That is a working-party: interesting as a first experience to an
officer; but when multiplied exceedingly, by day, by night, in rain,
mud, sleet, and snow, carrying trench boards, filling sand-bags,
digging clay, bailing out liquid mud, and returning cold and drenched,
without soup--then, working-parties became a monotonous succession of
discomforts that wore out the spirit as well as the body.
The last six nights before the promised rest were spent in
working-parties at Festubert. There the ground was low and wet, and it
was decided to build a line of breastwork trenches a few hundred yards
behind the existing line, so that we could retire on to dry ground
in case of getting swamped out. For six nights in succession we left
billets at 10.0 p.m. and returned by 4.0 a.m. The weather was the
coldest, it turned out eventually, that winter. It started with snow;
then followed hard frost for four nights; and, last but not least, a
thaw and incessant sleet and rain. I have never before experienced
such cold; but, on the other hand, I have never before had to stand
about all night in a severe frost (it was actually, I believe, from
10° to 15° below freezing point). At 2.0 a.m. the stars would glitter
with relentless mirth, as the cold pierced through two cardigans and
a sheepskin waistcoat. I have skated at night, but always to return
by midnight to fire and bed. Bed! At home people were sleeping as
comfortably as usual; a few extra blankets, perhaps, or more coals in
the grate!
I was out five nights of the six. Captain Dixon was on leave, so we
only had three officers in “B,” and two had to go every night. Every
night at 9.30 the company would be fallen in and marched off to the
rendezvous, there, at 10.0, to join the rest of the battalion. There
was no singing; very little talking. In parts the road was very bad,
and we marched in file. The road was full of shell-holes, and bad
generally; the ice crackled and tinkled in the ruts and puddles; the
frozen mud inclined you to stumble over its ridges and bumps. It took
us the best part of an hour to reach our destination. The first night
we must have gone earlier than the other nights, as I distinctly
remember viewing by daylight those most amazing ruins. There was a
barrier across the road just before you entered the village; (a
barrier is usually made like this--
[Illustration]
you can defend the road without blocking it to traffic; at the same
time it cannot be rushed by motor-cycles or armoured cars); then just
opposite were the few standing fragments of the church; bits of wall
and mullion here and there; and all around tombstones leaning in every
direction, rooted up, shattered, split. There was one of the crucifixes
standing untouched in the middle of it all, about which so much has
been written; whether it had fallen and been erected again I cannot
say. The houses were more smashed, crumpled, and chaotic than even
Cuinchy or Givenchy.
I remember that corner very vividly, because at that spot came one of
the few occasions on which I had the “wind up” a little. Why, I know
not. We were halted a few moments, when two whizz-bangs shot suddenly
into a garden about twenty yards to our right, with a vicious “Vee-bm
... Vee-bm.” We moved on, and just as we got round the corner I saw
two flashes on my left, and two more shells hissed right over us and
fell with the same stinging snarl into the same spot, just twenty
yards _over_ us this time. I was, luckily, marching at the rear of the
company at the time, as I ducked and almost sprawled in alarm. For the
next minute or two I was all quivery. I am glad to know what it feels
like, as I have never experienced since such an abject windiness! I
believe it was mainly due to being so exposed on the hard hedgeless
road; or, perhaps that last pair did actually go particularly near me.
At any rate, such was my experience, and so I record it.
[Illustration]
At the entrance to the communication trench R.E. officers told us
off: “A” Company, “carrying party”; “B” Company to draw shovels and
picks and “follow me.” Then we started off along about a mile and a
half of communication trenches. I have already said that Festubert is
a very wet district, and it can easily be imagined that the drainage
problem is none of the easiest. This long communication trench had
been mastered by trench-mats fastened down on long pickets which were
driven deep down into the mud. The result was that the trench floor was
raised about two feet from the original bottom, and one walked along a
hollow-sounding platform over stagnant water. The sound reminded me of
walking along a wooden landing-stage off the end of a pier. Every few
hundred yards were “passing points,” presumably to facilitate passing
other troops coming in the other direction; but as I never had the good
fortune to meet the other troops at these particular spots, though
I did in many others, I cannot say they were particularly useful.
Another disadvantage about these water-logged trenches was that the bad
rains had made the water rise in several places even over the raised
trench-board platform; others were fastened on top; but even these were
often not enough. And when the frost came and froze the water on top of
the boards, the procession became a veritable cake-walk, humorous no
doubt to the stars and sky, but to the performers, feeling their way
in the thick darkness and ever slipping and plunging a boot and puttee
into the icy water at the side, a nightmare of painful and jarring
experiences.
There was one junction of trenches where one had to cross a dyke full
of half-frozen water; there was always a congestion of troops here,
ration-parties, relieving-parties, and ourselves. All relieving had to
be done at night, as the trenches with their artificially raised floors
were no longer deep enough to give cover from view. This crossing had
to be negociated in a most gingerly fashion, and several men got wet to
their waists when compelled to cross while carrying an awkward-shaped
hurdle. After this, the trench was worse than ever; in parts it was
built with fire-steps on one side, and one could scramble on to this
and proceed on the dry for awhile; but even here the slippery sand-bags
would often treacherously slide you back into the worst part of the
iced platform, and so gave but a doubtful advantage. At last the open
was gained; then came the crossing of the old German trench, full
of all kinds of grim relics from the spring fighting. And so to our
destination.
On the open ground lay a tracing of white tape like this--
[Illustration]
forming a serpentine series of contacting squares; in the blackness
only two white-bordered squares were visible from one position. Each
man was given a square to dig. I forget the measurements; about two
yards square, I think, and two feet deep. The earth had to be thrown
about eight yards back against a breastwork of hurdles. These hurdles
were being brought up by the “carrying-parties” and fastened by wires
by the R.E’s; the R.E. officers had, of course, laid our white tapes
for us previously. Eventually the sentries will stand behind the
hurdle breastwork with a water-ditch ten yards in front of them, which
obstacle will be suitably enhanced by strong wire entanglements.
But all this vision of completion is hid from the eyes of Private
Jones, who only knows he has his white-taped square to dig. Arms and
equipment are laid carefully on the side of the trench furthest from
the breastwork; and nothing can be heard but the hard breathing and
the shovelling and scraping of the “other ranks.” For two hours those
men worked their hardest; indeed, it was much the best job to have on
those cold nights. I did more digging then than I have ever done before
or since. “Come on, Davies, you’re all behind,” and for ten minutes
I would do an abnormal amount of shovelling, until, out of breath, I
would hand the boy back his shovel, and tell him to carry on, while all
aglow I went along the line examining the progress of the work. We had
quite a number of bullets singing and cracking across, and there were
one or two casualties every night. Sometimes flares would pop over, and
every one would freeze into static posture; but on the whole things
were very quiet, the enemy doubtless as full of water as ourselves.
That intense cold! Yet I did not know then that it is far worse being
on sentry in the frost than marching and digging. And I am not sure
that the last night, when it rained incessantly, was not worse than
all the rest. We had a particularly bad piece of ground that night,
pitted with shell-holes, full of frozen water: you were bound to fall
in one at last, and get wet to the waist; but even if you did escape
that sticky humiliation, the driving sleet and rain were bad enough in
themselves. That was a night when I found certain sergeants sheltered
together in a corner; and certain other sergeants in the middle of
their men and the howling gale. I soon routed the former out, but did
not forget; and have since discovered how valuable a test of the good
and the useless N.C.O. is a working party in the rain.
Never have I longed for 2.0 a.m. as I did that night! My feet were
wet, my body tired, my whole frame shivering with an approaching
cold. The men could do nothing any longer in that stinking slush
(for these old shell-holes of stagnant water were, to say the least
of it, unsavoury!). I was so heavy with sleep I could scarce keep my
eyes open. But when at last the order came from our second-in-command
“Cease work,” I was filled with a dogged energy that carried me back
to billets in the best of spirits, though I actually fell asleep
as I marched behind the company, and bumped into the last four,
when they halted suddenly half-way home! And so at four o’clock the
men tumbled upstairs to breakfast and braziers (thanks to a good
quartermaster-sergeant). I drank Bovril down below, and then, in
pyjamas, sweaters, and innumerable blankets, turned in till 11.0 a.m.
Next afternoon we left Rue de l’Epinette and halted at a village on the
road to Lillers, whence we were to train to “a more northern part of
the line,” and enjoy at last our long-earned rest.