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Page 20
Two hours' forced marching brought us to the river, a real one, with
three pontoon bridges, newly built and held firm on flat-bottomed
boats moored in mid-stream. We took our way across, and bent to the
hill on the other side. Half-way up, in a narrow lane, a wagon got
stuck in the front of our battalion, and we were forced to come to a
halt for a moment. Looking back, I could see immediately behind three
lines of men straining to the hill; farther back the same lines were
crossing the bridges and, away in the far distance, pencilled brown on
the ploughed fields, the three lines of khaki crawled along like long
threads endlessly unwinding from some invisible ball. Now and again
I could see the artillery coming into sight, only to disappear again
over a wooded knoll or into an almost invisible hollow.
Thus the division, the apparently limitless lines of men, horses, and
guns crawled on the track of the fleeing enemy. As we stood there,
held in check by the wagon, and as I looked back at the thousands of
soldiers in the rear, I felt indeed that I was a minute mite amongst
the many. And then a second thought struck me. The whole mass of men
around me was a small thing in relation to the numbers engaged in
the great war. Even I, Rifleman Something or Another, No. So-and-so,
bulked larger in the division as one of its units than the division
did in the war as a unit of the Allied Forces.
Even more interesting than divisional exercises is the mimic
warfare that is heralded by a notice in battalion orders such as the
following: "The battalion will take part in brigade exercise to-day.
Ten rounds of blank ammunition and haversack rations will be carried."
At eight o'clock in the morning whistles were blown at the bottom of
the street in which my company is billeted, and the soldiers, rubbing
the sleep from their eyes or munching the last mouthful of a hasty
breakfast, came trooping out from the snug middle-class houses
in which they are quartered. The morning was bitterly cold, and
the falling rain splashed soberly on the pavement, every drop
coming slowly to ground as if selecting a spot to rest on. The
colour-sergeant, standing at the end of the street, whistle in hand,
was in a nasty temper.
"Hurry up, you heavy-footed beggars," he yelled to the men. "The
parade takes place to-day, not to-morrow! And you, what's wrong with
your understandings?" he called to a man who came along wearing carpet
slippers.
"My boots are bad, colour," is the answer. "I cannot march in them."
"And are you goin' to march in them drorin'-room abominations?" roared
the sergeant. "Get your boots mended and grease out of it."
At roll-call three of the company were found to be absent; two were
sick, and one who had been found guilty of using bad language to a
N.C.O. was confined to the guard-room. Those who answered their names
were served out with packets of blank ammunition, one packet per man,
and each containing ten cartridges wrapped in brown paper and tied
with a blue string.
The captain read the following instructions: "The enemy is reported
to be in strong force on X hill, and Battalions A and B are ordered
to dislodge him from that position. A will form first line of attack,
B will send up reserves and supports as needed." The rifles were
examined by our young lieutenant, after which inspection the company
joined the battalion, and presently a thousand men with rifles on
shoulder, bayonets and haversacks on left hip, and ammunition in
pouches, were marching through the rain along the muddy streets, out
into the open country.
The day promised to be an interesting one from my point of view; I had
never taken part in a mimic battle before, and the day's work was to
be in many ways similar to operations on the real field of battle.
"Only nobody gets killed, of course," my mate told me. He had taken
part in this kind of work before, and was wise in his superior
knowledge.
"One-half of the brigade, two thousand men, is our enemy," he
explained; "and we're going to fight them. The battalion that's
helping us is on in front, and it will soon be fighting. When it's
hard pressed we'll go up to help, for we're the supports. It won't be
long till we hear the firing."
An hour's brisk march was followed by a halt, when we were ordered
to draw well into the left of the road to let the company guns go by.
Dark-nosed and cold, they wheeled past, the horses sweating as they
strained at the carriage shafts; the drivers, by deft handling,
pulling the steeds clear of the ruts; out in front they swung, and the
battalion closed up and resumed its march behind.
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