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Page 7
CHAPTER III
PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE
One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral
town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki.
Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture
alone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in a
body when led by a commissioned officer.
The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by this
narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now
visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. The
housemaid from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to come
to their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town are
single, and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that five
or six thousand maidens blush to hear the old, old story within the
two-mile limit every week-end.
Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and then
he has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of
3 p.m. on Saturday and 10 p.m. on Sunday. His pass states that during
this time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men use
one pass for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit every
occasion.
One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled from
London by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my division,
and only one-half of these had true passes; one, who was an adept
calligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a counterfeit signature
of the superior who should have signed the form of leave. Another had
altered the dates of an early pass so cleverly that it was difficult
to detect the erasure, and a number of men had no passes whatsoever.
These boasted of having travelled to London every week-end, and they
had never been caught napping.
Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to
which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this,
and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawled
under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they lay
quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with
several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deign
to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible from
the platform window.
"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket
jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure
in khaki fumbled with the door handle.
"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket,
entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, the
one he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspection
he slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in the
space of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the forged permit of
leave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on the
racks were not detected.
Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets,
the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by the
platform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to see
their loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place at
the station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men to
see their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege and
took train to London when they got on the platform, these kind actions
have now become merely a pleasing memory.
Pickets seem to crop up everywhere; on one bus ride to London, a
journey of twenty miles, I have been asked to show my pass three
times, and on a return journey by train I have had to produce the
written permit on five occasions. But some units of our divisions soar
above these petty inconveniences, as do two brothers who motor home
every Sunday when church parade comes to an end.
When these two leave church after divine service, a car waits them at
the nearest street corner, and they slip into it, don trilby hats and
civilian overcoats, and sweep outside the restricted area at a haste
that causes the slow-witted country policeman to puzzle over the speed
of the car and forget its number while groping for his pocket-book.
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