CHAPTER IV

TO THE TRENCHES

I knew a bird at 'Ammersmith and free or four at Bow, But that was 'fore the war begun, a damned long time ago; But I'm a blurry Tommy now and never lose a chance When far away from dear old Smoke to kiss the girls o' France. Never lose a chance, Lead the dears a dance, 'Twasn't bad at 'Ammersmith; God! It's fun in France!

(_From "Forgotten Girls."_)

It was early morning; the soldiers billeted in Y---- Farm were rousing themselves and making preparations for the march up towards the firing line. It was now coming towards the Christmas season; the weather was cold and rainy, the farmyard damp and muddy, and a haze rose over the midden in the centre of the yard. Inside the farmhouse two officers were sitting down at the only table eating a breakfast of bread, butter, eggs and tea.

The soldiers were in the barn preparing their early meal. The barn seen in daylight was a cold, bleak, cheerless place, with a broken roof and rough uneven floor. The men shivered as they toiled. They had slept in the cold and felt frozen when they got up. A big fire had been lit in the byre beneath; the smoke filled the whole place and stung the eyes of the soldiers who worked at the cooking.

Sergeant Snogger was superintending operations upstairs and fretting, fuming and coughing. He was in a very bad temper, having lost a week's wages at the gambling table the night before.

"'Urry up, you men," he yelled. "I never seed as slummicky a crush in my natural. Ye're slouchin' about same as if ye were in the trenches. Come on Bowdy! Come on Fitz! Get a blurry move on, ye Spudhole! Ye're dowsy, men, ye're dowsy! Ye must wake up. We're off from here in an hour's time and we've a long march before us. We'll be in the trenches for Christmas."

"Where are we stopping to-night?" asked Fitzgerald, who was pouring tea into a messtin of boiling water, brought up from the byre.

"At the Ritz," said Snogger with fine irony.

"I heard we were billeting at Vinant," someone remarked.

"I thought we were bound for Bethune," Bowdy Benners said as he lifted a rasher of bacon from the lid of his messtin.

"You thought," spluttered Snogger. "Gawd Almighty, man, you're not paid to think in the army! If you think too much you'll find yourself damned unlucky. Anyhow, you'll find things hot in the trenches when you get there this time, I'm telling you," he continued, lowering his voice. "There's big things in the wind. We are going up by slow stages. I'm glad that we're goin'. I don't like these rests; there's too much damned work to do. Give me the trenches when I'm on the look-out for a cushy time. It's better than 'ere."

The sergeant took stock of the apartment with vigilant eyes.

"Now this 'as to be swept out 'fore you go 'way," he said. "All fag-ends, straw and everything 'as to be cleaned out."

"Wot's the 'ell good o' cleaning this caboosh," growled Bubb. "It can't be made clean."

"It's got to be done," said Snogger, raising his eyebrows with the decision of a verdict beyond appeal. "It's horders, and if horders isn't obeyed ye'll find yourselves damned unlucky.... 'As anybody got a fag to spare?"

Somebody handed the sergeant a cigarette and he lit it. This seemed to put him in a good humour and he began relating to Bowdy Benners the story of his card-playing the night before.

"Couldn't get a card," he said. "I was dead off all the night. Once I got a top trotter, but Sergeant MacManus had a priol of deuces. I went some money on my 'and that go. But it's as I've always said: 'When a man's luck's out s'out, but when it's in s'in.'"

The sergeant paused as if waiting for the full wisdom of his remark to sink into Bowdy's brain. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, "Get ready, men, get ready! We'll soon be movin' off," and went out to the farmyard.

Much work was yet to be done, rifles had to be cleaned, odds and ends had to be collected from the straw. Here a knife and fork was found, there an entrenching tool handle, a tin of bully beef, a towel and a cake of soap. A great amount of stuff is lost in large barns; things disappear mysteriously, lost in the straw or stolen, perhaps, by the children of the billet. Soldiers treating themselves to meals at village cafés often find themselves served up with bully beef in new guise.

Outside in the farmyard the fowls were standing on the smoking midden, several of them scratching the dung with crooked claws in search of worms. In the midst of the assembly, a rooster, proud as Lucifer, was clucking amorously. Now and again he selected a gentle hen, walked leisurely round her and strove to attract her attention. The hen would fix a careless but coquettish look on him, stretch out a wing and stand on one leg for a moment. Afterwards she would succumb and the triumphant Sultan would stretch out his neck and crow a challenge to any cock that dared to listen.

At the hour of nine the battalion was ready to move off. The men were in a good temper now and full of confidence. The every-day inspection of equipment had been gone through, rifles had been examined and the men's feet looked at. All were so cool that it was difficult to believe that they were going up to the trenches, in which doubtless a number of them would lay down their lives. Most of the soldiers carried big French loaves on the back of their packs. The loaves had been holed through the middle, a string was placed in the hole and tied to the dees on the braces.

Sergeant Snogger made a final inspection of his platoon.

"'Ave yer everything?" he asked, then without waiting for an answer he went on: "Course yer should 'ave everything. If ye 'aven't ye 'aven't and that's all. Here, where the devil is Fitz?" he asked.

"Forgot somethin' and 'e's gone into the barn," Bubb replied.

"I see, I see," said Snogger, winking knowingly. "Fifi 'as gone in too, to 'elp 'im look for what 'e's forgot."

"'E's fair dotty on the bird," said Bubb.

"But 'e's forgotten hisself," Snogger remarked. "If Captain Thorley finds 'im missin' he'll be for it. Ah, 'ere 'e comes."

Fitzgerald came out from the barn fully equipped and took his place in the ranks.

"Ye're just in time," said Snogger. "Another minute late and ye'd be for it."

Fitzgerald laughed awkwardly and cast a sheepish glance back at the barn. Fifi was standing at the door, and Bubb vowed she was crying.

"Fancy 'er cryin' cos you're goin' off, Fitz," he said.

Fitzgerald did not reply.

The company marched off, the men singing at the tops of their voices; Spudhole, as was his wont, leading the singing. He was a most vivacious youth, full of high spirits and good humour, fond of his fun and his beer, and as vital at the end of a journey as at the beginning.

Despite the distance which a regiment may travel, the soldier is as circumscribed in his area as the spoke of a limber wheel. The space is confined, and Spudhole Bubb was no less a prisoner on the march than he had been in the guard-room. Always the same mates in front, the same ruddy necks pressed sturdily back, the same red-brick hands swinging across the khaki, the same entrenching tool handles waving backwards and forwards, the same round loaves tied to the packs, the same red-haired sergeant with the tops of his ears pressing tightly to his head, the same platoon commander who now and again stood out from the ranks and shouted the ancient words of command. "Get a step there, get a step!" or "Cover off from the front" or some such order. Once in every hour a whistle was blown and the whole battalion halted. The Captain of a company would step out in front, halt, turn about and shout at the top of his voice, "Ten minutes. Left of the road. Fall out!"

The men would loosen their equipment and throw themselves down anywhere. Cigarettes would be lit, jokes passed, and rations taken out of haversacks. A few would drink from their water bottles, sipping the water carefully, for it was impossible to know when the next pump would be reached.

At the end of the fourth hour and the sixteenth fag (Spudhole computed the length of a march by the number of fags he smoked on the route), Fitzgerald, who had been silent for quite a long time, turned to Benners and said: "You know, I had a damned strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was up in the trenches fighting a big German who got in my way somehow, and he ran his bayonet through my neck."

"You may get killed this time," said Benners.

"No, not this time," Fitzgerald replied. "I decided that by the cards last night. 'Red: I come back safe; black: I don't' I said to myself, cut the cards and turned up the ace of hearts. A good omen."

"'Ear old Fitz!" muttered Spudhole, "'e's always pullin' our legs."

"You don't understand, Spudhole," said Fitzgerald. "I'm damned superstitious. Once I dreamt...."

"One night I had a dream," Bubb interrupted. "Dreamt I was 'avin' a feed at the S.P.O.[A] shop. Next day I was at the street corner a dogger-on for flatties. As I was there a copper comes round the other turnin' and flops into the banker school. 'Twasn't arf a barney. They sets about 'im an' knocks 'im down and I gets 'is 'at and I kicks it along the street. Didn't arf make a big 'ole in it either. But I was unlucky, for two other coppers comes up and collars me. I was put in the reformatory."

[Footnote A: Sausage, potato and onion.]

Sergeant Snogger detached himself from the ranks.

"Oo's got a fag to give away?" he asked as Fitzgerald came up.

"Here's one," said Fitzgerald, handing the sergeant a cigarette.

"'Ave yer 'eard about the German as was captured about 'ere the other day?" asked Snogger, marching by the side of Fitzgerald and lighting the fag. "'E was got sleeping in a ruined cottage near the Café Belle Vue. Dressed in khaki, with the badge of the A.S.C."

"Good God! I must have met that man," said Fitzgerald, and told for the first time the story of his adventure on the night of his return from the Café.

He told the story in full, frequently interrupting himself and going back in the narrative to present a detail which he had forgotten. When he had finished he looked at Snogger, who had listened very attentively, and suddenly realised that the sergeant did not believe him. To be sure, Fitzgerald had wandered away a little from the absolute truth, and the story of his own behaviour had lost nothing in the telling. A sarcastic smile showed on Snogger's lips and Fitzgerald suddenly wished that the narrative had never been told.

"Damned good, or in French, tray bon!" said the sergeant in a drawling voice. "Blurry fine story. That A.S.C. bloke told me all about it. 'E was one of our own men, too, not an A.S.C. at all. You don't know the feller. 'E's in another company. But 'e's allus up to a joke. We planned it all out in the Café after old Fatty 'ad told that cock and bull story about the Germans breakin' through. The A.S.C. man was to wait for you on the road outside. Wasn't that the ticket, Spudhole?"

"That was 'ow we planned it out," said Bubb.

Fitzgerald puffed his cigarette viciously and his face was crimson. For a moment he was silent, then he spoke, turning to Bubb.

"I cannot follow your remark, Bubb," he said in a slow voice. "The crash of your falling aitches drowns all other sounds. You should take a lesson in pronunciation from Sergeant Snogger. If you listen to him when he orders the 'wear wanks to wipe their wifles wiv woily wags,' you can't fail to become a master of English as it is spoken."

The sergeant blushed red as a beetroot. His imperfections in speaking were a great eyesore to the man, and only once before had he been twitted about the matter. Then thick ears and black eyes were kept as mementoes of the occasion.

But now he could say nothing; he had given Fitzgerald sufficient provocation to warrant the jibe. Without another word he went back to the head of his platoon. Fitzgerald relapsed into silence and the march went on.

At one o'clock came the order "Halt! Left of the road! Fall out!" And the men sank down wearily. Their packs were very heavy and their weight seemed to increase at every yard, justifying the soldiers' proverb: an ounce at the start is a pound at the finish.

"Blimey, I don't know why we carry all this 'ere clobber about wiv us," Spudhole muttered, leaning back on his pack and stretching out his legs to their fullest extent. "Ballyclavvy 'elmet, trench 'elmet, gas 'elmet and cap," he enumerated. "Bay'net, 'ipe, trenchin' tool, munition (unner and eighty rounds), 'ousewife, 'oldall, ground sheet, messtin, razor, soap, comb, towel, paybook, clasp knife, iron rashuns, knife, fork and spoon, a bottle of water, a tin of condensed milk, a tin of café-o-lay, chocolate, matches and a box o' fags...."

"I'll carry yer fags for you if you like," said Bowdy Benners.

"Will yer?" muttered Bubb. "I've lost things that way 'fore now."

"There are a lot of things which you haven't mentioned yet," Fitzgerald remarked. "There's the first field dressing, the loaf, your overcoat and spare shirt, pants, socks and vest. By the way, what are we stopping here for?" he asked. "There's no sign of dinner as far as I can see."

"You're damned unlucky about dinner," said Snogger, coming up at that moment. "There's no dinner, not yet for a while, anyhow. We're going away from 'ere by buses soon as they come along."

"Where to?" asked Bowdy Benners.

"'Ome," Snogger answered sarcastically. "'Ome to the trenches. Big doins up there, I s'pose."

"It's like the blurry Army," Bubb remarked with an air of finality. "Turnin' us out to fight when we're just ready for a bit o' grub. I never could 'old with this 'ere war. Look, there they come, curse 'em!"

An omnibus came in sight, then a second, a third; coming from a village through which the battalion had just passed. As the vehicles drew up the spirits of the soldiers seemed to rise, jokes were passed with the drivers, mock enquiries were made and jesting answers were given: "Is this the bus for Wandsworth?" "Not this one--next along this way, No. 32." "Fares, please." "Full inside; room for two on top," etc.

The soldiers got on to the buses, which set off hurriedly when all were aboard. Nobody seemed to know where the battalion was bound for, but all anticipated big things ahead. The soldiers' hearts vibrated with a strange expectant thrill--something great was going to happen. Where? When? The men asked one another, but none could answer the questions. They stood on the threshold of great events; children outside the door of a chamber of mysteries.