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Page 15
Soldiers, like most mortals, are sometimes dry and like to drink;
Wankin was often dry and Wankin had seldom much money to spend. The
first soldier who came out from the town wanted to get to the tavern.
"Can't pass here!" the mock-picket told him.
"But I'm dry and I've a cold that catches me awful in the throat."
"Them colds are dangerous," Wankin remarked in a contemplative voice,
tinged with compassion. "Used to have them bad myself an' I feel one
coming on. I think gin, same as they have in the trenches, is the
stuff to put a cold away. But I'm on the rocks."
"If you'll let me through I'll stand on my hands."
"It's risky," said Wankin, then in a brave burst of bravado he said,
"Damn it all! I'll let you go by. It's hard to stew dry so near the
bar!" An hour later the young man set off towards home, and on his way
he met two of his comrades-in-arms on the road.
"Going to ---- pub?" he inquired.
"Going to see that no one does go near it," was the answer. "Picket
duty for the rest of the day, we are."
"But Wankin--"
"What?"
The young man explained, and shortly afterwards Wankin went to
headquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his head
sticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had not
heard of the London road escapade.
"Here on account of drink?" I asked him.
"You fool," he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this damned place
for the canteen?"
I like Wankin and most of his mates like him. We feel that when
detention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be things
of yesterday, Wankin will make a good and trustworthy friend in the
trenches.
CHAPTER VI
THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING
There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to
me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of
soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand
men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is
this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal
position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we
march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone
save officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on the
gravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub against
trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the moving
battalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, looks
like the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging its
cumbrous length along. The silence is full of mystery, the gigantic
mass, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, a
dumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternal
sorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marching
thus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster is
full of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious to
danger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal,
and certain of its mission.
A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven in
the evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet,
water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the town
out into the open country. The night varied in temper--sometimes it
rained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; and
once we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the whole
county--the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snug
farmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-clad
soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.
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