|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 51
We retired to our huts and tents. Soon after lights-out the Police
Corporal came round and shouted:
"Parade at 4.45 to-morrow morning in marching order."
The tumult increased as though the surge were coming nearer and nearer.
Shells of small calibre passed overhead with a prolonged whistle and
burst with a hardly audible report. The thunder of bigger explosions
shook the huts and caused the ground to tremble.
As I woke the next morning the din of the cannonade broke in upon my
senses with a sudden impact. Rumbling, thundering, bellowing, rushing,
whistling, and whining, the tumult seemed all around and above us.
Sudden flashes lit up the whole camp so that for fractions of seconds
every hut and tent was brilliantly illuminated. Multitudes of dazzling
stars appeared and disappeared.
We drew our breakfast and packed up our belongings. All was confusion in
the hut.
We paraded, the roll was called, and as the day began to dawn we marched
off.
We passed down the main road in long, swaying columns of fours. We left
the woodyard behind us and hoped it would be destroyed--how we hated the
place for the dreary months we had spent there! The westward stream of
refugees had ceased, but an eastward stream of French infantry and field
artillery thronged the roads. The artillerymen were mostly tall and
powerfully built. The infantry were nearly all elderly men of poor
physique. They looked desperately miserable. We exchanged greetings:
"It's a good war!"
"C'est une bonne guerre!"
And then we broke into song:
"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, _Oh_ it's a lovely war!"
The French did not sing, but we, who were escaping destruction, passed
from one song to another:
"I don't want to fight the Germans,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd sooner be in London,
Dear old dirty London."
And
"Far, far from Ypers,
I'd like to be,
Where German snipers
Can't get at me."
And
"When this bloody war is over,
O how happy I shall be,
When I get my civvy clothes on,
No more soldiering for me."
and all the other songs familiar to every soldier in the British army.
We marched all day along straight roads running in between flat fields
and past ugly little villages. As we grew tired and footsore our
rollicking spirit abated and the singing died down.
Towards nightfall we halted in a large meadow with a pond in one corner.
Several lorries loaded with tents were waiting for us. We unloaded them,
pitched the tents, crept into them, and went to bed.
The rumble of the cannonade sounded faintly in the far distance.
"I reckon it's a bloody shame to let the other Tommies and the
Frenchies...."
The voice seemed to die away into a drawl as weariness overcame me. I
continued to hear the sound of words for a little while, but they
conveyed no meaning. And then sleep descended and brought entire
oblivion.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|