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Page 16
We stepped out into the darkness. The snow had turned into rain that
fell in a steady drizzle. I was so tired that I had no desire left
except to get back to my tent.
"I wonder how much longer this is going to last?" I said to my friend.
"I've given up hoping. The war's a deadlock that may continue for years.
All I look forward to now is the spring and the warm weather. And
perhaps we shall get leave some day."
"We've only been out here six weeks--we won't get leave for another
eight or nine months."
"It's something to think about and look forward to, anyhow."
We said good-night to each other and retired to our tents. Most of the
men were already in bed. They were smoking their cigarettes as they lay
stretched out on the floor. One of them was reading a newspaper by
candlelight. I wrapped myself up in my blankets and wedged myself
tightly in between my two neighbours. Although I was wearied out, I felt
compelled to glance at a paper. There might perhaps be some hint of
peace, some little glimmer of hope to go to sleep with and dream about.
I took up my copy of the _Times_ which I received irregularly. I began
to read the leading article but was so irritated by its unctuous
hypocrisy that I turned the page over and scanned the headlines.
Suddenly a big drop of water splashed on to it. I became aware of the
rain outside, swishing down upon the canvas, and, looking up, I saw a
glistening patch of moisture collect above my head. Another heavy drop
descended, I stretched out my arm and pushing my fist against the wet
patch drew it down the canvas as far as the brailing. But the moisture
continued to gather, and soon it was dripping in many places. My
kit-bag, standing upright next to me, was getting wet, so I placed the
_Times_ over it and let the water trickle off towards the ditch. Then a
man shouted from the other side of the tent:
"It's coming through like anything, my whole pillow's sopping wet."
It was more than he could bear. Each little discomfort taken separately
would have been altogether negligible. But when petty discomforts
accumulate there comes a time when one more, however small it be, has
the effect of a sudden infliction. He ground his teeth with fury at
those pattering drops of water, but the realization of impotence seemed
to descend upon him with such power that he lay back and closed his
eyes, a prey to violent mental agitation. Then he uttered a foul oath,
blew out his candle, pulled the blanket over his head and tried to go to
sleep. I heard one of the other men laugh and say good-humouredly, "'E's
gettin' on--'e'll soon be swearin' wi' the best of us."
The man referred to was rather refined and had resisted the habit of
swearing far longer than any of us. I was amused, and my own equanimity,
which had been on the verge of collapse, was restored by this incident.
I was conscious of irresistible weariness and called out with a yawn:
"Good night all," and the answer came "Good-night!" Then I heard someone
singing ironically: "When you come to the end of a perfect day." I began
to feel warm and was filled with a sense of intense comfort. I could
hear the water dripping on to my coat, but I had become indifferent to
it. My limbs were so tired that to rest them was an exquisite luxury.
And then sleep came with a sudden, overwhelming rush.
We felt refreshed and yet indolent when we heard the steps of the Police
Corporal splashing through the mud at half-past five the next morning.
He banged the tent and shouted: "Reveill�--breakfast at six, parade at
six-thirty." We enjoyed a few minutes in bed. I ran my fingers through
my hair and found that it was soaked. My pillow--a shirt stuffed with
spare clothing--was wet also, but the rain was no longer beating down on
the canvas. The air inside the tent was pervaded by a foul, acrid
stench. I threw the flap aside and looked out. The vast expanse of
steely blue was dotted with glittering stars and on the eastern horizon
it merged into a faint pallor. The air was deliciously fresh. We got up
one by one, yawning, groaning and grumbling, and dressed and went out to
wash.
As I stood in the breakfast queue I saw that the east was shot with a
delicate rose colour. The purity of the dawn seemed extraordinarily
beautiful compared with the sordid dinginess of the mud and khaki that
were always with us.
We paraded, but at first the parade did not seem so tedious as usual. I
was in the rearmost rank, standing next to a friend, Private Cowan, and
we were able to converse in whispers. He remarked that the morning was
like a "symphony in blue and gold." Even the glistening mud, usually so
hideous, was flecked with luminous patches. But my feet were becoming
numb and cold again. I felt that the pain they were giving me was about
to deprive me of all pleasure in the rising sun to which I had been
looking forward ever since reveill�. I fought against it, but it was
stronger than I. I became angry and trod the mud in order to get warm. I
gave up the attempt and waited impatiently for the end of the parade.
When the sun's rim cut the horizon and sent a shaft of light across the
land, it merely irritated me.
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