Toward the end of the village we descried a Foden disinfector, or in the vernacular a “delousing machine,” whose function it was to receive the highly-populated undergarments of men coming out of the line, and fumigate these so that, it was hoped, all the live stock, whether actual or in embryo, should perish, and the garments be fit for reissue. In a sense, therefore, the engine stood for modern hygiene, but at the same time the fact that it was necessary at all was a commentary on the changelessness of war. Who would have believed that in so short a time youths like ourselves, brought up with all the scrupulous twentieth-century regard for cleanliness and sanitation, could not only be as cheerfully lousy as mediæval mercenaries, but have come to accept the louse as a natural if somewhat irritating companion ? And this, mark you, notwithstanding that many of us had been brought up with the idea that the mere mention, much more the existence, of the domestic flea was a taboo. At the moment the engine was a welcome landmark, indicating our destination—a nondescript building before which hung a black notice board whereon, beneath the familiar red square within a white one which was the divisional sign, appeared the words “Divisional Baths.”
We filed in, officers to the right, men to the left, groping our way through a steam-laden darkness which a few hurricane lamps and candles were doing their pathetic best to penetrate. If at first our eyes could register but little, our noses were at once assailed by an atmosphere in which the smell of wet clothes and the wash-tub vied with the cloying odour of hot human bodies. As soon as we could see clearly enough to distinguish the particular iron bath or wooden tub in which we were to bathe, we started to undress (a difficult process when there are no chairs or benches on which to sit) grumbling and swearing as we balanced, first on one leg and then on the other, in an attempt to unroll puttees or pull off sodden boots and socks, and at the same time prevent them falling on to the wet floor. Then we grumbled and swore because we could find insufficient places on which to hang our clothes, and again because we could not see where we had put them. Altogether, an observer would not have carried away the impression that we were overjoyed at the prospect of a real wash after so long an abstinence. I doubt if we were. It was certainly not because we were contrasting this gloomy, malodorous cavern with what we remembered bath-rooms to be like, but rather that subconsciously we had gone so long without a bath, without complete and absolute stripping, that our clothes had become part of us, and we shrank from removing them, especially in the middle of a November afternoon some miles away from camp.
Though it was delicious to lie and soak in the steaming, soapy water, and yield to the lassitude that crept over one, it did not somehow seem right. And when our ablutions were over and the men, still sweating, had donned “grey-backs,” pants and vests fresh from the “de-louser” and stood ready for the road, how uncomfortable we all felt ! Far from being freshened or invigorated, we were hot and sticky and our new underclothes tickled abominably.
The march back, of course, only made matters worse, and we reached the Citadel thoroughly sweaty and irritated. Cleanliness, I then realised, could be as strange a sensation as dirtiness. Anyway, a three-mile trudge along wet roads on a winter evening directly after a hot bath might be expected speedily to dissipate any pleasurable glow that it had aroused. It is worthy of record that no one caught the chill that might be expected to ensue if the same thing were done under the ordinary conditions of civilisation, especially since by the time we reached camp it was dark and colder than ever, while the man whose boots had kept out the wet was lucky indeed. It is worthy of record, but affords no occasion for surprise, for one of the minor wonders of the war was the astonishing rarity of the common cold in all its objectionable forms. No matter that we remained in sopping clothes in waterlogged trenches in midwinter for days at a time; no matter that our feet were seldom dry and never warm; no matter that we slept on the ground or in stuffy underground warrens; no matter that we were frozen, rained on and snowed on, the rarest thing in France was to see a pocket-handkerchief being used to mop a running nose ! Now why should that have been ? Was it only due to the training, and the open-air life ? Was it only because we could not herd together in overheated, overcrowded theatres, cinemas, or restaurants ? Or was it due in part to the fact that we so seldom had the chance to soak our bodies in hot water ? In other words, might there not be some causal connection between the infrequency of our ablutions and our immunity from colds ?
The bathing parade fell out in the darkness and splashed back to their chilly tents. Mac and I walked back to ours, lit the candles, and sat down to enjoy the tea which, from the strength of it, Purkiss must have been brewing for some time against our return. Had some benevolent fairy then asked us what we would most like to do, we should doubtless have replied, “Get down to it now and get off to sleep while we are still warm.” But the thought of being able to do any such thing was so fantastic that it never occurred to us. Which was just as well, as we had scarcely finished tea before the plodge-plodge of men tramping through the lines signalled the return of the working-party. George's hoarse voice could be heard exhorting his men to “Pick 'em up,” “Mark time in front,” “Halt !” Sheer force of habit. Poor old George, no exigency of active service could break down the training of years on the barrack square. I sent Mac out to relieve him and see that the party were properly settled in, and teas “dished up.” George blundered into the tent, tired, wet, and mud-bespattered, unhooking his equipment as he came.
“Hullo, George !” I said. “What kind of a day have you had ? Any casualties ?”
“Might have been worse,” he replied, surprisingly enough in the circumstances, but then you never knew the depth of his native stoicism. “No one was hit, but that wasn't the fault of the R.E.'s. Nice kind of a carry-on, three hundred men working like bloody navvies under a couple of R.E. officers and some N.C.O.'s ! If Jerry had happened to shove over any iron rations a good many of us would have been napoo-ed. But he was very quiet all day. The lads stuck it well too. Hi, Briggs !” he yelled. “Tea ! Jildy !”
“What about a whisky first ?” I suggested.
“Can a duck swim ?” was the prompt reply. “By gum, that's good !”
And that was all the description I was able to get out of him of a day's work which must have been as depressing as it was strenuous. His only complaint was the familiar one on the part of the regular soldier, of having to act as unskilled labourer to the Sappers. From my point of view, the important thing was that he had brought back his party intact and, Mac reported a few minutes later, seemingly in good heart. Certainly the buzz of conversation and the chuckles of merriment which arose from the lighted tents were not indicative either of excessive fatigue or of low spirits. But this was one of the remarkable characteristics of the British soldier—when by every law of nature he should have been utterly weary and “fed-up” he invariably managed to be almost truculently cheerful. Satisfied that there was no more to be done for the present, I felt that perhaps a further attempt to draw the Adjutant as to the future movement of the Battalion was indicated. Slipping on a British warm and winding a woollen muffler round my neck, I sallied forth. The night was already “perishingly cold.” These words recur daily in the war diary of the period. It is hard to think of any apter description, or that there have often in recent years been Novembers as cold as that of 1916. There was still no frost, but there was now a relentless north-east wind which cut through clothes or canvas like a razor. The sky was grey and gloomy with a feeble moon struggling to pierce the shifting blanket of clouds. The orderly-room tent was empty save for Greenwood, the Orderly-room Sergeant, who volunteered the information that I should find the Adjutant in the Headquarters mess-tent.
“Do you know if the C.O. is there ?” I inquired tactfully.
“No, sir,” was the reassuring answer, “the Colonel has gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed?” I repeated. “Why? Is anything the matter with him ?”
“I don't think so,” Greenwood laughed, “except that he can'
t get warm. Feels the cold very badly, sir, does Colonel Jack. He was telling the Adjutant that he hardly slept a wink last night, he was that cold.”
I then recalled that Cook, the medical officer of the Scottish Rifles, had told me that Jack had spent all his life trying to keep himself down to a riding weight of 10 stone when he should normally have ridden nearer 12 stone, and that these years of weight-reducing had left him without any of the fatty tissue which is Nature's protection against cold. This was the first evidence I had had of the Colonel's difficulty in keeping warm, but the important thing at the moment was that the coast was clear for me to beard Matheson.
I found him crouching round a brazier in the headquarters tent with Raynor, his assistant. The Doctor, heavily wrapped up, was trying to read a book. I accepted Matheson's offer of a drink, hoping by emphasising the social nature of my visit to glean some pearl of information without recourse to the embarrassing necessity of having to ask outright. But there was “nothing doing.” For no apparent reason, we were all very cheerful, except the Doctor, to whom the epithet will not apply. We wronged him by imagining he was lugubrious, since we learnt later that he owned an acute, if peculiar sense of humour, but he was never seen to look cheerful. If his nearest approach to a smile was an apologetic twisting of his mouth, his habitually glum expression was the mask to the whole gamut of the emotions. It was not therefore surprising that he showed himself none too pleased at Mathe-son's repeated admonitions to “cheer up.” We laughed and “reminisced” about a variety of topics, but both Matheson and Raynor, whether by accident or design, kept off the subject of our movements. It was getting on towards dinner-time.
“Well, Matty,” I said, getting up to go, “I'11 have to be pushing off. Thanks for the hospitality. Oh ! By the way, I suppose there is no news about us going out ?”
“Nope ! Not a darned word officially. Every one talks as if the Division was going to be relieved, but I suppose something up in front will happen and put the kibosh on everything.”
I was just leaving the tent when Raynor chipped in with, “What about the brigade lorry to Amiens ? Weren't you going to say something about that ?”
“Oh, yes,” Matheson said; “I nearly forgot to ask you. Brigade have got a lorry going in to Amiens to-morrow for officers who want to do shopping. They've allotted us three places. Do you want to go ?”
There was no doubt about my reply. I leapt at this opportunity, not only because it meant getting away from the Citadel and its mud for a day, but also because it was an insurance against being detailed to accompany any working party that might be ordered for the morrow. I marched back to my tent with a much lighter step.
Dinner that night was a cheerless affair owing to the growing difficulty of keeping warm, and not even a well-stoked brazier and as many clothes as we could heap on ourselves sufficed to keep us comfortable. Indeed we sat half in our flea-bags to eat it, and afterwards got right into them to await the arrival of orders with our fates for the next day. Their contents, when they arrived, were neither more or less than we expected. The main item was practically a repetition of the night before. “The Battalion will find a working party, etc.” The only difference was that this time only 200 men and 4 officers would be required, and providentially for Mac, the officers were this time detailed by name, none being required from B Company.
After the usual formalities of warning the wretched men and issuing the rum, we were glad of the excuse to turn in early and seek warmth under flea-bags and blankets.
VI
INTO REST
THERE is a wealth of sensuous satisfaction in managing to get snug and cosy amidst bleak and cheerless surroundings. Does not a howling gale in the chimney emphasise the bliss of a warm bed ? But that night it seemed that we had no sooner congratulated ourselves on the “fug” we had got up, and resigned ourselves to well-won slumber, than an icy blast and some one shouting in the darkness jerked us back to reality. Alarums and excursions without ! The tent flap was open, and Briggs standing in the entrance. What did the commotion mean ? If our sleep-drugged minds held any conscious thought it was that the “something” had happened, and that we were for the line again.
“What the devil's up ?” I managed to inquire.
“Orders just come in, sir,” Briggs said, “that the transport has got to move off at nine o'clock Everything has to be packed by 8 a.m., sir.”
We did not appreciate the significance of the words. George muttered thickly, “What the hell next ?” Mac only groaned wearily. I asked Briggs to repeat the message.
“Transport has to move off by 9 a.m. All kits, blankets, and heavy baggage to go by it, or the blanket lorry to be packed by 8 o'clock. Orders just come in from brigade, sir.”
Slowly the significance of this message dawned on us. Like a thief in the night our reprieve had come. These were surely the orders we had been hoping for for so long. We were, we must be going out ! Yet the realisation made it no easier for us to crawl out of warmth and comfort into the darkness of that bitter November morning.
“What time is it now ?” I queried, too lazy to look at my own watch.
“Five o'clock, sir.”
“Oh well, send for Company Sergeant-Major Scott.”
While they fetched him I should have at least a momentary respite. I snuggled down again. No matter that I knew full well that I could delay the inevitable by at best a few seconds, the instinct to snatch “just a little longer” in bed was as strong as ever in spite of the joyous news to which we had awakened. Almost at once it seemed, Scott was round and fully dressed. Everything was under way, he reported, but he grumbled a little because the task of packing up was complicated by so many men having to parade for the working party. He was hurrying them on so that they got all their blankets rolled and stacked before they left. The early hour, the darkness, the “perishing” cold, the bustle and confusion of dressing in crowded tents, the struggle of dealing, still half-asleep, with heavy rolls of blankets—these, you might think, would combine effectively to put a damper on any show of light-heartedness. But it was not so. That strange, incalculable British sense of humour shone like a bright light even in these adverse circumstances. Oaths there were, it is true, and fearful imprecations as rifles were knocked over on to some one's stockinged feet; as some one tripped over a tent rope and fell headlong in the half-frozen mud; or as some one, wobbling under a roll of blankets, barged into some one else. Yet there were as many laughs as curses, and no “grouses.” And as I dressed I overheard a snatch of conversation which was typical of the prevailing spirit. Some one who had either drawn a “dud” shirt from the “de-lousing” machine or had missed his bath altogether, had adopted drastic measures. Said he: “Coom 'ere, Bill. Just look at this 'ere. Would you believe it, last night I hung my shirt up outside the tent so as the frost could kill the ‘chats,’ but just you take a pike at 'em now. The little b——r's are still alive, only they're standing up on their hind-legs, and clapping their front feet to keep themselves warm.”
The goings and comings in the darkness kept steadily on, until before the working party fell in all the blankets and heavy baggage, except the one blanket per man we were mercifully to be allowed to carry out with us, had been stacked in a noble pile by the roadside, to await the lorry from the Divisional Supply Column to come and collect them. Six o'clock came and the working party moved off— back towards the line. It was still dark, and very cold. The camp seemed emptier and more cheerless than ever. Officers' kits were packed and the servants were carrying them across to transport lines. What more is there to say ? What was there to do ? What did we do ? We had now only the bare boards of the tent or our coats and the one blanket to rest upon. It was too cold by far to settle down again. So we just stamped up and down, sat down, got up, smoked, talked, grumbled, as usual, managed to laugh a little, and speculated on where we were off to to-morrow. There was the fact that we had now a topic of discussion. Were we going out for a long rest or merely moving to another sector
or even another battle front ?
Daylight found the question still unsolved. Breakfasts were served early, as the “cookers” had to march with the transport at 9 a.m. Until we caught up with our transport again, all rations would have to be issued direct to the men and either cooked by them in their mess-tins or eaten by them cold and raw. The departure of the “cookers” was thus as shrewd a blow on a winter morning as the removal of the blankets, for a mess-tin is a poor substitute for a “cooker” boiler as a cooking utensil. We went round the company tents to see that all was shipshape and that nothing had been left behind, and then walked across to where Hinchcliffe and young Greening, the transport officer, looking absurdly like father and son, were chafing to be away. They as much as any one had reason to rejoice that they were leaving “the Somme” and its interminable mud-distances, with all the complications of rationing and agony to man and beast that these involved. All the time the regiment was in the line, the transport's day was one of twenty-four hours, half of which was spent in plodding the weary way from their camp to Battalion Headquarters and back again, through traffic, mud, shells, and rain. And yet, as I suppose can be said of the majority of regiments, so efficient were the feeding arrangements of the army (what a pity that the Operations branch was not as well-directed as the Quartermasters') there was never a time when rations were not delivered to Battalion Headquarters. If the troops ever went short, the breakdown in the long chain came in the last link, that between Battalion Headquarters and the actual front line. Let us therefore salute the transport, wish them a good journey, and a speedy reunion in more congenial surroundings.
With much straining and pushing, the wagons bump and squelch out of the juicy mud of the horse-standings on to the gritty mud of the road. There goes the headquarter wagon, the bane of Greening's existence. The designation “G.S.” is applied to it in courtesy only. Actually it is an old railway delivery wagon, pressed, after years of service on London streets, into Government employ in 1914. It is a most commodious vehicle, which indeed is the only reason why it has been retained. It will carry far more than the ordinary “G.S.” wagon, but whenever it breaks down, which is often, repairs take a long time, since spare parts are not available. Many a time has its fate hung in the balance, but still it creaks and groans along under its load, drawn by the two beautiful chestnuts which are the apple of their driver's eye, and which I am last to see side by side in death as in life, beside the bridge at Pontavert in May 1918. The “cookers” clatter out, accompanied by their cooks, whose uniform is almost as black and greasy as the vehicles themselves. No smoke curls from their chimneys, for their fires are drawn. The Maltese cart jogs past, with Brownlow peering primly from under the hood, followed by the medical cart. There is more life in the swing and jingle of the limber wagons, their drivers saluting stiffly with their whips as they wheel on to the road past us. Hinchcliffe, looking cherubic as ever on his fat, bob-tailed pony, is a fitting tail-piece. A wave of the hand from him and they are gone. We turn back to our tents. A whole day lies before us, but what to do ?
Twelve Days on the Somme: A Memoir of the Trenches, 1916 Page 12