The Amateur Army Part 2

"No sir, it was jaw-ache--toothache, I mean."

"I'll put you on light duties for the day," said the M.O. And the rheumatic one and I went out together.

"That's wot they do to a man that's sick," said the rheumatic one when we got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's light duties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderly room and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you 'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your own bit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers'

mess, or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Light duties ain't arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't ten times better, and I'm going to grease to the battalion parade."

Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversack on the wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gun unfastened; his whole general appearance was a discredit to his battalion and a disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentable as he bellowed his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin',"

he said. "Left my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no time for it now. Anyway I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me.

I know what they are." He was still protesting against the hards.h.i.+ps of things as he swung out of sight round the corner of the street.

Afterwards I heard that he got three days C.B. for disobeying the orders of the M.O.

Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practically immune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course, sprains and cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of the battalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches,"

a company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agrees with him.

CHAPTER III

PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE

One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki.

Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture alone without written permission, and we can only pa.s.s the limit in a body when led by a commissioned officer.

The whole world, with the exception of the s.p.a.ce enclosed by this narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. The housemaid from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to come to their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town are single, and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that five or six thousand maidens blush to hear the old, old story within the two-mile limit every week-end.

Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and then he has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of 3 p.m. on Sat.u.r.day and 10 p.m. on Sunday. His pa.s.s states that during this time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men use one pa.s.s for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit every occasion.

One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled from London by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my division, and only one-half of these had true pa.s.ses; one, who was an adept calligraphist, wrote his own pa.s.s, and made a counterfeit signature of the superior who should have signed the form of leave. Another had altered the dates of an early pa.s.s so cleverly that it was difficult to detect the erasure, and a number of men had no pa.s.ses whatsoever.

These boasted of having travelled to London every week-end, and they had never been caught napping.

Pa.s.ses were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this, and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawled under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they lay quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk c.o.c.kney, who would not deign to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible from the platform window.

"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure in khaki fumbled with the door handle.

"Would you mind me lookin' at pa.s.ses, mateys?" demanded the picket, entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pa.s.s, the one he had written and signed himself; and when it pa.s.sed inspection he slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in the s.p.a.ce of three seconds the brisk c.o.c.kney had the forged permit of leave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on the racks were not detected.

Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets, the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by the platform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to see their loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place at the station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men to see their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege and took train to London when they got on the platform, these kind actions have now become merely a pleasing memory.

Pickets seem to crop up everywhere; on one bus ride to London, a journey of twenty miles, I have been asked to show my pa.s.s three times, and on a return journey by train I have had to produce the written permit on five occasions. But some units of our divisions soar above these petty inconveniences, as do two brothers who motor home every Sunday when church parade comes to an end.

When these two leave church after divine service, a car waits them at the nearest street corner, and they slip into it, don trilby hats and civilian overcoats, and sweep outside the restricted area at a haste that causes the slow-witted country policeman to puzzle over the speed of the car and forget its number while groping for his pocket-book.

It has always been a pleasure to me to follow for hours the winding country roads looking out for fresh scenes and new adventures. The life of the roadside dwellers, the folk who live in little stone houses and show two flower-pots and a birdcage in their windows, has a strange fascination for me. When I took up my abode here and got my first free Sunday afternoon, I shook military discipline aside for a moment and set out on one of my rambles.

There comes a moment on a journey when something sweet, something irresistible and charming as wine raised to thirsty lips, wells up in the traveller's being. I have never striven to a.n.a.lyse this feeling or study the moment when it comes, and that feeling has been often mine.

Now I know the moment it floods the soul of the traveller. It is at the end of the second mile, when the limbs warm to their work and the lungs fill with the fresh country air. At such a moment, when a man naturally forgets restraint to which he has only been accustomed for a short while, I met the picket for the first time. He told me to turn--and I went back. But it was not in my heart to like that picket, and I shall never like him while he stands there, sentry of the two-mile limit; an ogre denying me entrance into the wide world that lies beyond.

There is one thing, however, before which the picket is impotent--a pa.s.s. It is like a free pardon to a convict; it opens to him the whole world--that is for the period it covers. The two most difficult things in military life are to obtain permit of absence from billets, and the struggle against the natural impulse to overstay the limit of leave.

There are times when soldiers experience an intense longing to see their own homes, firesides, and friends, and in moments like these it takes a stiff fight to overcome the desire to go away, if only for a little while, to their native haunts. Only once in five weeks may a man obtain a week-end pa.s.s--if he is lucky. To the soldier, luck is merely another word for skill.

With us, the rifleman who scores six successive "bulls" at six hundred yards on the open range has been lucky; if he speaks nicely to the quartermaster and obtains the best pair of boots in the stores, he has been lucky; if by mistake he is given double rations by the fatigue party he is lucky; but if the same man, sweating over his rifle in a carnival of "wash-outs," or, weary of blistered feet and empty stomach, asks for sympathy because his rifle was sighted too low or because he lost his dinner while waiting on boot-parade, we explain that his woes are due to a caper of chance--that he has been unlucky.

To obtain a pa.s.s at any time a man must be lucky; obtaining one when he desires it most is a thing heard of now and again, and getting a pa.s.s and not being able to use it is of common occurrence. Now, when I applied for special leave I was more than a little lucky.

It was necessary that I should attend to business in London, and I set about making application for a permit of leave. I intended to apply for a pa.s.s dating from 6 p.m. of a Friday evening to 10 p.m. of the following Sunday. On Wednesday morning I spoke to a corporal of my company.

"If you want leave, see the platoon sergeant," he told me. The platoon sergeant, who was in a bad temper, spoke harshly when I approached him. "No business of mine!" he said; "the company clerk will look into the matter."

But I had no success with the company clerk; the leave which I desired was a special one, and that did not come under his jurisdiction. "The orderly sergeant knows more about this business than I do. Go to him about it," he said.

By Wednesday evening I spoke to the orderly sergeant, who looked puzzled for a moment. "Come with me to the lieutenant," he said.

"He'll know more about this matter than I do, and he'll see into it.

But it will be difficult to get special leave, you know; they don't like to give it."

"Why?" I asked.

"Why?" he repeated; "what the devil does it matter to you? You're paid here to do what you're told, not to ask questions."

The lieutenant was courteous and civil. "I can't do anything in the matter," he said. "The orderly sergeant will take you to the company officer, Captain ----, and he'll maybe do something for you."

"If you're lucky," said the sergeant in a low whisper. About eight o'clock in the evening I paraded in the long, dimly-lighted pa.s.sage that leads to our company orderly-room, and there I had to wait two hours while the captain was conducting affairs of some kind or another inside. When the door was opened I was ordered inside.

"Quick march! Left turn! Halt!" ordered the sergeant as I crossed the threshold, and presently I found myself face to face with our company commander, who was sitting by a desk with a pile of papers before him.

"What is it?" he asked, fixing a pair of stern eyes on me, and I explained my business with all possible despatch.

"Of course you understand that everything is now subservient to your military duties; they take premier place in your new life," said the officer. "But I'll see what I can do. By myself I am of little help.

However, you can write out a pa.s.s telling the length of time you require off duty, and I'll lay it before the proper authorities."

I wrote out the "special pa.s.s," which ran as follows:

"Rifleman ---- has permission to be absent from his quarters from 6 p.m. (date) to 10 p.m. (date), for the purpose of proceeding to London."

I came in from a long march on Thursday evening to find the pa.s.s signed, stamped, and ready. On the following night I could go to London, and I spent the evening 'phoning, wiring, and writing to town, arranging matters for the day ahead. Also, I asked some friends to have dinner with me at seven o'clock on Friday night.

Next day we had divisional exercise, which is usually a lengthy affair. In the morning I approached the officer and asked if I might be allowed off parade, seeing I had to set out for London at six o'clock in the evening.

"Oh! we shall be back early," I was told, "back about three or thereabouts."

The day was very interesting; the whole division, thousands of men, numberless horses, a regiment of artillery, and all baggage and munition for military use took up position in battle formation. In front lay an imaginary army, and we had to cross a river to come into contact with it. Engineers, under cover of the artillery, built pontoon bridges for our crossing; on the whole an intensely interesting and novel experience. So interesting indeed that I lost all count of time, and only came to consciousness of the clock and remembrance of friends making ready for dinner when some one remarked that the hour of four had pa.s.sed, and that we were still five miles from home.

I got to my billet at six; there I flung off my pack, threw down my rifle, and in frenzied haste consulted a railway timetable. A slow train was due to leave our town at five minutes to seven. I arranged my papers, made a brief review of matters which would come before me later, and with muddy boots and heavy heart I arrived at the station at seven minutes to seven and took the slow train for London.

When I told the story of my adventures at dinner a soldier friend remarked: "You've been more than a little lucky in getting away at all. I was very unlucky when I applied--"

But his story was a long one, and I have forgotten it.