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Page 18
We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we
always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was
close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring
verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of
trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of
dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of
a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.
In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several
units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got
into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was
spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order
from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.
"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"
The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the
arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his
wrong from the eyes of man.
The night wore on. Now and again a clock in the town struck out the
time with a dull, weary clang that died away in the darkness. On both
sides I could see stretching out, like some gigantic and knotted
rope, the row of bent workers, the voiceless toilers, busy with their
labours. Picks rose into the air, remained poised a moment, then sank
to tear the sluggish earth and pull it apart. The clay was thrown out
to front and rear, and scattered evenly, so that the natural contour
of the ground might show no signs of man's interference. And even as
we worked the section commanders stole up and down behind us, urging
the men to make as little sound as possible--our safety depended on
our silence. But pick and shovel, like the rifle, will sing at their
toil, and insistent and continuous, as if in threat, they rasped out
the almost incoherent song of labour.
A man beside me suddenly laid down his shovel and battled with a cough
that strove to break free and riot in the darkness. I could see his
face go purple, his eyes stare out as if endeavouring to burst from
their sockets. Presently he was victor, and as he bent to his shovel
again I heard him whisper huskily, "'Twas a stiff go, that; it almost
floored me."
Thrown from tongue to tongue as a ball is thrown in play, a message
from the captain on the flank hurried along the living line. "Close in
on the left," was the order, and we hastened to obey. Trenching tools
were unhafted and returned to their carriers, equipments were donned
again, belts tightened, and shoulder-straps buttoned. Singly, in
pairs, and in files we hurried back to the point of assembly, to find
a very angry captain awaiting us.
"I am very disappointed with to-night's work," he said. "I sent
five messages out; two of them died on the way; a third reached its
destination, but in such a muddled condition that it was impossible to
recognise it as the one sent off. The order to cease work was the only
one that seemed to hurry along. Out at the front, where all orders
are passed along the trenches in this manner, it is of the utmost
importance that every word is repeated distinctly, and that no
order miscarries. Even out there, it is found very difficult to send
messages along."
The captain paused for a moment; then told a story. "It is said that
an officer at the front gave out the following message to the men in
the trenches: 'In the wood on the right a party of German cavalry,'
and when the message travelled half a mile it had changed to: 'German
Navy defeated in the North Sea.' We don't know how much truth there
is in the story, but I hope we will not make a mistake like that out
there."
Lagging men were still stealing in as we took up our places in columns
of fours. A clock struck out the hour of twelve, and the bird in
the hedgerow was still singing as we marched out to the roadway, and
followed our merry pipers home to town.
CHAPTER VII
DIVISIONAL EXERCISE AND MIMIC WARFARE
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