Chapter 3

It was good to have an hour's rest before us. As for the afternoon, well, there was no need to think about it, for it was still a long way off. Besides, somehow or other, the afternoons always seemed to pass more quickly than the mornings. Moreover, we had paraded an hour earlier than usual, so perhaps we would also stop work an hour earlier.

"'Urry up an' dror yer tea," our Sergeant shouted. "Yer only gettin' 'alf an hour fur yer dinner--we've got ter git the job done ter-day."

"Why didn' yer tell us it was a task job? Gorblimy--we ain't done 'alf of it! We won't get 'ome afore five or six o'clock ter-night."

"_I_ can't 'elp it, 'tain't _my_ fault. Yer've got ter git it done, them's me orders!"

There was vociferous grumbling and swearing that continued while we formed a queue and filed past a man who poured tea in our mugs from three large dixies.

We sat down by the stacks wherever we could find shelter from the wind. We were still hot and perspiring after our morning's labours. We ate our rations in silence, for the resentful shouting had died down and had given way to a sullen quiet.

When we had finished our meal we stared vacantly at the snowflakes that were blown over the top of the stack above our heads and whirled round and round in front of our eyes. Gradually we began to feel the cold again. Many of us got up and walked about, for it was nipping our feet. I was stiff in every limb and full of bitter thoughts. I hoped the half-hour would be over soon.

At length the Sergeant blew the whistle and shouted:

"Fall in! Yer'd better put a jerk in it--yer won't go till yer've finished. It's a task job. Yer didn't shift 'alf the sleepers this mornin'--there's another couple o' thousand left, so get a bloody move on!"

The grumbling was renewed in the ranks.

"It's no good yer bloody well grousin'. The work's got ter be done. Carry on!"

Our tedious round began again. The distance from the old stacks to the new increased steadily. We tramped through mud and slush in wind and snow, hour by hour.

"I'm goin' ter 'ave a rest--I've 'ad enough o' this," said my partner. I felt annoyed, for although I was stiff and tired and sore, I had again relapsed into that state of dulled sensibility in which my limbs seemed to move automatically and time to have no existence at all. Although I was aware of pain I was yet indifferent to it. And now my partner was going to drag me back to full consciousness. I gave way to his wish and we leaned against a stack. We stayed there with several others until we were discovered by a Corporal who chased us out and abused us roundly.

We went on with our work. The brief rest had only done harm, for the first sleeper that was subsequently laid on to my shoulders produced such a pang that I had to close my eyes for a moment. Nor could I set my stiff limbs in motion without difficulty. I silently cursed my partner.

The dreary hours dragged on. I tried hard to fall back into my former state of blurred consciousness, but the very attempt itself frustrated the effort. I was full of growing resentment against my partner. My dormant anger was aroused, it had found an object and, against all reason and fairness, demanded vengeance. I pretended to stumble and jerked the sleeper so as to hurt his bruised shoulder.

"'Ere, what yer doin' of?" he shouted, in great pain. "Christ Almighty--be a bit careful!"

In a moment I regretted what I had done and said, "Sorry, I stumbled over something--I hope I didn't hurt you!" I felt ashamed and all my resentment vanished. Thereupon I became too oppressed in spirit even to look at my watch.

We had been splashing and squelching to and fro, I did not know how long, when an officer arrived. He stood still for a moment and watched us work, and then he said:

"The job's got to be done this afternoon, my lads, but I'll try to get you a day off to-morrow. Who's in charge of the party?"

We pointed to Sergeant Hyndman. He was sitting in an improvised shelter in front of a fire, sipping hot tea. He had spent the greater part of the day there and had not observed the arrival of the officer, who was walking slowly towards him. Suddenly he jumped up and there was an exchange of words which we could not hear, although we tried hard to do so. The Sergeant came over to us, looking rather disconcerted, so we were able to guess the nature of the conversation.

We felt greatly encouraged and worked with renewed vigour. The stacks vanished one by one. Time appeared to slip by with gathering speed. A kind of common rhythm seemed to pervade our movements as we plodded to and fro with mechanical regularity.

The officer went up to the stacks from which we were removing the sleepers and made a mental calculation. "Only four hundred sleepers left now, boys--that's five apiece or ten to each pair. You'll soon be finished, and I've ordered lorries to take you home!"

His kindness did us good and we worked with a kind of grim determination. My partner was coming to the end of his strength. His knees were bent and from time to time he staggered, jerking the sleeper so as to make me wince with pain. But he kept up obstinately. We counted the sleepers as we received them--one, two, three and so on. This occupied our minds and the time passed all the more quickly. Eight ... nine ... ten! At last our work was done! "Thank God," said my partner with deep conviction. We rested against one of the newly erected stacks, but it was not long before Sergeant Hyndman came striding up and addressed us angrily. He had evidently been snubbed by the officer and was giving relief to his mortification by bullying us.

"What yer doin' there? Swingin' it on yer mates, are yer? Call yerselves sportsmen, do yer? Get back an' bloody well do yer bit!"

"We've done our share--there were four hundred sleepers left, which makes ten journeys for each pair. If it doesn't work out it's because some of the others have been swinging the lead behind the stacks. We've carried our ten and aren't going to do any more."

"Why d'yer let 'em swing it on yer? It's yer own bleed'n' fault! D'yer think I'm goin' ter stand over yer all day? Some o' you blokes is as 'elpless as a lot o' kids--yer want a wet nurse to look arter yer!"

"That's what _you're_ there for, to look after us!"

"Don't bloody well tell me what I'm there for! I know me job an' don't want no tellin'. Get stuck into it an' don't let me 'ave any o' yer bloody lip, else yer'll be up fur orderly room--I shan't give yer another warnin'!"

Seeing that argument was useless, we walked away and crossed the railway lines. My partner growled: "I 'ope I meet 'im in civvy life--I'll give 'im somethin' ter think about--I've seen better things'n what 'e is crorlin' about in cheese!"

There were fifty or sixty sleepers left. We dawdled on our way back, hoping that there would be enough men in front of us to clear the lot. The officer shouted: "Come along, my lads, sharp's the word and quick's the action! You'll be finished in a few minutes."

The khaki-clad flock straggled forward. The remaining sleepers were loaded on to our shoulders--my partner and I received the last one. As we carried it off a cheer was raised by the other men.

At last the whistle blew and we fell in. The sky was still covered with dark, heavy clouds, but the snow had ceased to fall and the wind had dropped. We could see the dreary landscape a little better now. The railway lines curved away until, in the far distance, they ran into a ghostly procession of tall, slim poplars that filed across the dim horizon and marked the passage of a main road. On one side of the lines long rows of dark squares in the snow showed where the sleepers had lain before we moved them. A brown stretch of churned and trodden mud and water connected them with the new stacks that extended in four rows along the other side of the lines. We had shifted five thousand eight hundred sleepers in all. Around us were level, snow-covered fields unrelieved by anything except an occasional tree and the farm. It consisted of three buildings, a house and two big barns, forming three sides of a square. The cottage had a low, thatched roof, dirty, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. In the middle of the square was a huge muck heap, covered with patches of melting snow. A pig was pushing its snout into it here and there and grunting from time to time. There was no other sign of life anywhere. A dreary, depressing landscape!

"Remember Belgium!" said one of the men in the ranks derisively.

"We won't forget it in a hurry!"

"Fritz can have it for all I care!"

"He's welcome to it--I don't want it, I want to get back to Blighty!"

We were called to attention. The promised lorries were waiting for us--three lorries for eighty men. We marched towards them in file, but as we got nearer to them, the men broke rank and everybody rushed wildly to get in first so as to secure any available boxes or petrol-tins that might serve as seats. A noisy, turbulent throng clustered round each lorry. We scrambled in, pushing, hustling, and swearing. We were soon so crowded together that there seemed to be no room for any more, but nevertheless more men climbed up and forced an entrance. We formed a compact mass and our picks and shovels were heaped on the floor in everybody's way.

The lorries started with a lurch so that we all staggered backwards. They raced along, and bumped, and swayed from side to side. The roof of the lorry in which I stood was so low that I had to keep my head bent forward all the time. The fumes from the exhaust made our eyes water and smart.

We reached camp after about half an hour's ride. We jumped out and lined up on the road. Sergeant Hyndman perceived the Commanding Officer strolling about amongst the tents and said to us in an awe-stricken voice:

"Smarten up a bit, for Christ's sake--there's the Captin walkin' about--don't make no bloomers when yer dismissin' else yer'll get extra shovel-drill an' get me into trouble in the bargin. Mind yer salute prop'ly.... Party--Tshn! Inter File, Right Turn! Quick March!"

We wheeled into the camp holding our picks and shovels at the trail. Our Commanding Officer stood still and watched us. As we passed him the Sergeant yelled out with unaccustomed sharpness: "Eyes--Right!" We all turned our heads smartly to the right and he saluted with strained, affected precision. The Captain touched the peak of his cap in a perfunctory manner. He hardly seemed to be looking at us at all, but suddenly he spotted a man who was not holding his shovel perfectly horizontally and thundered:

"Hold your shovel properly, that man there!"

The man was disconcerted for a moment but soon re-adjusted his shovel to the satisfaction of his superior. The ground was so muddy and uneven that it was sometimes impossible to keep the exact military formation. Without having noticed it, I was a little more than the regulation distance from the man in front of me.

"Close in there, you with the glasses," bawled the Captain in a resentful voice, as though my transgression were intended as a personal insult. But his anger was diverted by another man and he shouted with gathering fury:

"That tall man over there--hold your pick properly. Not like that, damn it ... hold it at the point of balance--no, no, no, not like that ... here, Sergeant, take that man's name and number and give it to the Corporal of the Police. He'll do half an hour's extra shovel-drill this evening."

We halted. The Sergeant made a note of the offender's name and then said to us in an awestruck whisper: "Now mind yer dismiss prop'ly for Christ's sake!"

We faced to the front and on the command "Dismiss!" we all turned to the right, raised our picks and shovels and transferred them from our right hands to our left, touched the peaks of our caps with our right hands, turning the palms outwards, paused a moment and then broke away.

"Fall in, fall in--very bad, very bad, absolutely disgraceful!" bawled our infuriated C.O. "If you don't do it correctly this time, you'll get an hour's extra drill every day for a week! Now dismiss them again, Sergeant!"

The prospect of extra drill filled us with dismay. Sore shouldered, stiff, and aching in every limb, oppressed and wearied in mind and body, we only had one intense desire--to get away, to hide somewhere, to enjoy at least a brief spell of warmth and comfort.

The Sergeant gave the command, and we dismissed a second time. We went through the absurd performance with anxious punctiliousness, but three men, either through fear, weariness or carelessness, made some slight mistakes and their names were taken for extra drill.

As soon as the men were off the parade ground there was a wild stampede in the direction of the cook-house.

The scramble became a mad hustle. The men raced along the duckboards or splashed through the mud in a frantic attempt to get served first, pulling their mess-tins and plates out of their haversacks as they ran.

It was growing dark and a few snowflakes were floating about in the air. The sky was a murky leaden colour.

As I stood waiting in the dinner queue I had an imaginary fight with our Commanding Officer. I knocked him down and gloated over him as he lay sprawling in the mud with my hand savagely clutching his throat. Our pent up feelings often found relief in vindictive dreams.

The queue stretched along the duckboards and in between the tents like a dingy snake in the gathering gloom. It was rapidly growing in length as more and more men came hurrying up.

But the front of the cook-house was still closed. The men grew impatient and banged their plates and tins. There were shouts of "Get a move on." Fretful, smouldering impatience increased until it flared up in anger. "Get a bloody move on--we want somethin' ter eat after a 'ard day's work!... _We've_ got a fine bloody lot o' cooks, keepin' us waitin' in the bloody cold--get a move on, for Christ's sake!"

The shout was taken up all along the line--"Get a bloody move on"--and tins and plates were banged until the uproar was deafening. It gradually died down again, although curses and resentful remarks were still frequent.

"'Tain't worth eatin' when yer do get it!"

"Bleed'n' stew, I s'pose, 'nough ter make yer go queer!"

"I wouldn't feed me dog on the stuff they give yer in the army--I wouldn't 'ave the cheek ter orfer it to 'im."

"Come on ... put a jerk in it"--the cry was taken up again. There was hooting and booing and banging of plates until pandemonium reigned once more.

Suddenly the shutter in front of the cook-house was pushed up and one of the cooks appeared in the opening. The booing changed into loud, ironical cheers:

"What yer bin doin' all day? Swingin' the lead?"

A squeaky voice retorted: "I've bin up since four in the mornin' workin' a bloody sight 'arder 'n what you 'ave. Yer never satisfied, yer bleed'n' lot o'...." The rest was drowned in a storm of derisive shouts.

Then the men in the queue took up the argument again.

"Yer too slow--yer could'n catch the measles!"

"You come an' do my job an' see 'ow yer like it!"

"Do _your_ job! No bloody fear, why, 'tain't a man's job at all, it's only old women what goes inter the cook-'ouse."

"Go on, get a move on--don't stand there talkin'!"

Another cook appeared. He dipped his ladle into a receptacle behind the till and emptied into the first man's plate. The next man held out his plate, and then the next. The cumbrous serpent moved forward inch by inch while a counter movement began of men straggling back through the slush, holding up tins or plates of steaming stew.

Two candles were burning inside my tent. The men were sitting on their kits. The noisy manner in which they ate was irritating beyond measure.

After the meal I went over to the tent of a friend. He was sitting by a flickering candle in moody silence. I asked him to come with me to the village. He put on his great-coat and we walked along the duckboards on to the road. It was intensely dark and we were conscious of the silent fall of snow.

"What sort of a day did you have?" I asked.

"Undiluted misery. We marched to the quarry and when we got there we found there was nothing to do, because the train hadn't turned up. So we waited in the wind and snow, just walking up and down, stamping with our feet and trying to get warm. Lieutenant Rowlatt was in charge of us. He wouldn't let us leave the quarry or go into an estaminet. And he only gave us half an hour for dinner. Of course he spent most of the time in an estaminet himself, eating eggs and chips and flirting with the girl ... I couldn't keep warm and there was no shelter anywhere. It was like doing an eight-hour guard."

All the windows in the streets of the village were shuttered, but the light shone through cracks and chinks--a promise of warmth within that cheered us a little.

We entered an estaminet. It was crowded. Soldiers were standing round the walls waiting for vacant seats. We went to another place, but that too was crowded. Indeed, they were all crowded. Nevertheless, it was better to stand in the warmth than to walk about stiff-limbed in the slush and falling snow. We went into the next estaminet we came to. We entered the main room. An oil lamp was hanging from the ceiling. In the middle there was a long table and soldiers were seated round it, squeezed tightly together, eating eggs and chips and drinking wine or coffee. We leaned up against the wall with a number of others and waited our turn. The air was hot and moist and smelt of stale tobacco, burning fat, and steaming clothes. There was a glowing stove at one end of the room. It looked like a red-hot spherical urn on a low black pedestal. A big bowl of liquid fat was seething on the fire. A woman with flaming cheeks was throwing handfuls of sliced potatoes into it while she held a saucepan in which a number of eggs were spluttering. The heat was becoming intolerable and we edged away from the stove. We waited patiently. More and more men came in until there was no standing room left. The conversation was boisterous and vulgar, much of it at the expense of the woman, who laughed frequently and pretended to feel shocked and called the soldiers "Naughty boyss." A few men rose from the table from time to time and at last our turn came, so that we were able to sit down. We ordered eggs and chips and _vin blanc_, but had to wait a long time before we got them. I rested my head on my hand and struggled hard with sleep. At last the woman brought us the things we had ordered and we ate and drank in silence. We would have been glad to sit and doze in this warm place in spite of the smell and noise, but when we had finished we felt obliged to get up and make room for others.

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: "Reveillé--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 reveillé. 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.