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Page 20
None of the others showed any sign of fear except anxious looks. We had
been in no danger at all during the previous night's bombardment, but
many of the men had been terrified. Now, when they were in considerable
danger, they felt nothing more than anxiety, simply because there was no
awe-inspiring display of flame and thunder.
Murky smoke clouds issued from the trees and hung above them in thin
streaks. Another sound was added to the uproar--a long-drawn whine--and
a sepia coloured puff appeared high up in the sky. A sharp ringing crack
followed. Then another puff appeared, and then another. High-explosive
and shrapnel shells continued to burst without intermission.
The frogs had ceased to croak, for one of our men, standing on the edge
of the pond, was throwing pellets of mud at them. All at once he dropped
like some inanimate object and lay on his side. At the same time a
motor-ambulance came rushing up and stopped at the cross-roads. Two
soldiers issued from the wood, carrying a stretcher. A wounded man was
lying on it. He did not move arms or legs, but he howled and screamed;,
his voice rising and falling in a weird inhuman manner. A little after,
two more wounded were carried out on stretchers. They were white, silent
and motionless.
A small crowd had gathered round the man who had fallen by the pond. He
was laid on to a stretcher. He seemed rather dazed but did not look
pale. A shrapnel ball had hit him in the back.
The human loads were pushed into the ambulance which disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
Our anxiety had deepened. Many of us were walking up and down in
agitation. Nevertheless, there was no hysteria and no ignominious
expression of fear as there had been on the previous night.
At last the railway engine appeared, to the immense relief of everyone.
We climbed into the trucks and the return journey began. The shelling
continued unabated. Above the belt of poplars a little black speck was
moving along at great speed. Around it and trailing behind it were
numerous black puffs. The frogs had resumed their concert.
When we reached our destination we were met by several others of our
unit who had arrived during the afternoon and were quartered in the
town. Two of my friends were amongst them and together we walked over to
their billet.
We entered a huge bare room and sat down on some of the kits that were
arranged neatly round the floor.
"What sort of a time have you had?" I asked.
"Bloody awful.... The S.M. and the C.O. have been making our lives a
misery. We've had umpteen extra drills and parades and kit inspections.
There've been at least a dozen orderly-room cases and several court
martials since you left. You know Deacon? He got fourteen days. Fritz
has been over a good bit lately and we have to put out our lights as
soon as it gets dark, else we'd cop out for sure. Well, one of our
Sergeants had a candle burning in his tent and the flap wide open--you
could have seen it a mile off, you've no idea how a candle shows at
night-time! We heard the archies firing in the distance and we yelled,
'Put out that light!' The Sergeant didn't take any notice though--he was
reading a book. So Deacon, who's got a decent bit of pluck, walked
across and asked him to blow out his candle. The Sergeant told him to
mind his own bloody business. So Deacon said he'd blow the candle out
himself. The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to
sling his bloody hook. Deacon got wild too--he's one of those fellows
who won't stand any nonsense--and blew out the candle. The Sergeant went
off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest. Deacon got a
District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination. They gave
him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or
wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way.
They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and
one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let
him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full
glare of the sun.
"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis
wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the
parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make
complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days
Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning
before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to
chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of
course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain--our rations aren't
so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He
wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd
open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of
course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be
published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water
myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing
things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote:
'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only
difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a
little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the
case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a
court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct
prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off,
though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was
nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and
when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your
boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I
omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure
about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a
fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few
numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and
shouted, 'What are you grinning at--anything foonny?' Fletcher said,
'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M.
shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up
before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the
ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same
sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we
were standing to attention. Peter started talking--you could hear him as
loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin'
there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper.
Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What
the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter
replied, '_Cacoethes loquendi_.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest
idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else
I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.
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