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Page 4
II
THE FATIGUE PARTY
There was much gaiety amongst us. There was also much gloom and
bitterness. We would often quarrel violently over nothing and enrage
over little inconveniences--intense irritability is the commonest result
of army life. Our morale was dominated by the small, immediate event.
Bad weather and long working hours would provoke outbursts of grumbling
and fretful resentment. A sunny morning and the prospect of a holiday
would make us exuberantly cheerful and some of us would even assert that
the army was not so bad after all. A slight deficiency in the rations
would arouse fierce indignation and mutinous utterances. An extra pot of
jam in the tent ration-bag would fill us with the spirit of loyalty and
patriotism. If an officer used harsh, brutal words we would loathe him
and meditate vengeance. But if an officer spoke to us kindly or did us
some slight service we would call him a "brick," a "toff," or a "sport,"
and overflow with sentimental devotion. It was not difficult to please
us, indeed it was often touching to observe for how small a thing the
men would show the most ardent gratitude and work enthusiastically so as
to show their appreciation. If those with high authority in the army had
only realized the tremendous influence just a little kindness and
consideration had on the morale of the troops, much hatred and
misunderstanding, much useless suffering and humiliation would have been
avoided.
Not that the officer was any worse than the common soldier. In fact, he
was usually better. Most officers, belonging as they did to the
comparatively wealthy and leisured classes, had been able to cultivate
luxuries like good-nature, benevolence and politeness all their lives.
But mere goodness was not sufficient.
Moreover, the very fact that a man possesses authority separates him
from his fellows. How could it be otherwise? What man capable of genuine
friendship could bear to exert authority over his comrades with the
obligation to inflict punishment on them if he should think it
"necessary"? To dominate is worse than to be dominated. The very feeling
that a man has power over others gives him an exaggerated notion of his
own importance and merits, it arouses latent brutality, it fosters
grandiose thinking (that terribly harmful vice of nearly all our
statesmen). Indeed, most of the cruelty and injustice in the world are
due to the demoralizing influence of authority. And that is why there
were some amongst us who would not have accepted promotion whatever
material advantages it might have brought.
How could our officers, seeing that they had authority and did not live
our lives, understand us and treat us as we ought to have been treated,
if they were not men of exceptional imagination, sympathy, and
intuition? We never had an officer who was really a bad man. At heart
they were all good, kindly men--and yet how often we suffered from their
lack of something more than mere goodness!
* * * * *
We were twelve in a tent and going to bed always tried our tempers
severely. Some of us would come in with muddy boots and tread on the
blankets of the others. Those who went to bed early could stretch out
their legs until their feet touched the tent-pole. Those who arrived
later would have to wedge themselves in as best they could and remain
with knees drawn up for the rest of the night--any attempt at forcing
them down would be sure to create a disturbance and lead to a furious
dispute and an exchange of insults and obscenities. When we were all in
bed, no one could stir without causing inconvenience to his neighbours.
A sleepless night, invariably accompanied by the restless impulse to
stir and fidget, was unforgettable misery, but fortunately our work was
so hard that sleepless nights were very rare.
One morning when it was still dark and the others were snoring loudly I
looked at my watch. It was twenty past four. Reveill� would be at
half-past five, so I abandoned myself to more than another hour, so I
thought, of delicious indolence. I closed my eyes and was beginning to
doze and dream again when I heard the flop, flop of heavy feet treading
the mud and slush outside. The canvas of the tent was banged violently
and a voice, which I recognized as that of the Police Corporal, shouted:
"Reveill�--breakfast at 5 o'clock, parade at 5.30 with haversack
rations."
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