"Going to ---- pub?" he inquired.

"Going to see that no one does go near it," was the answer. "Picket duty for the rest of the day, we are."

"But w.a.n.kin--"

"What?"

The young man explained, and shortly afterwards w.a.n.kin went to headquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his head sticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had not heard of the London road escapade.

"Here on account of drink?" I asked him.

"You fool," he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this d.a.m.ned place for the canteen?"

I like w.a.n.kin and most of his mates like him. We feel that when detention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be things of yesterday, w.a.n.kin will make a good and trustworthy friend in the trenches.

CHAPTER VI

THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING

There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone save officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on the gravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub against trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the moving battalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, looks like the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging its c.u.mbrous length along. The silence is full of mystery, the gigantic ma.s.s, of which you form so minute a unit, is entirely voiceless, a dumb thing without a tongue, brooding, as it were, over some eternal sorrow or ancient wrong to which it cannot give expression. Marching thus at night, a battalion is doubly impressive. The silent monster is full of restrained power; resolute in its onward sweep, impervious to danger, it looks a menacing engine of destruction, steady to its goal, and certain of its mission.

A march like this fell to our lot once every fortnight. At seven in the evening, loaded with full pack, bayonet, haversack, ground-sheet, water-bottle, overcoat, and rifle, we would take our way from the town out into the open country. The night varied in temper--sometimes it rained; again, it froze and chilled the ears and finger-tips; and once we marched with the full moon over us, lighting up the whole county--the fields, the woods, the lighted villages, the snug farmhouses, and the grey roads by which the long line of khaki-clad soldiers went on their way. That night was one to be remembered.

We went off from the parade ground, a thousand strong, along the sloping road that sweeps down the hill on which our town is built.

Giggling girls watched us depart--they are ever there when the soldiers are on the move--old gentlemen and ladies wished us luck as we pa.s.sed, but never a head of a thousand heads turned to the left or right, never a tongue replied to the cheery greetings; we were marching at attention, with arms at the trail.

The sky stood high, splashed with stars, and the moon, pinched and anaemic, hung above like a whitish speck of smoke that had curled into a ball. Marching at the rear, I could see the long brown line curving round a corner ahead, the b.u.t.t-plates of the rifles sparkling brightly, the white trenching-tool handles shaking backward and forward at every move of the men.

"March easy!"

Half an hour had pa.s.sed, and we were now in the open country. At the word of command rifles were slung over the shoulders, and the battalion found voice, first in brisk conversation and exchange of witticisms, then in shouting and song. We have escaped from the tyranny of "Tipperary," none of us sing it now, but that doggerel is replaced by other music-hall abominations which are at present in the full glory of their rocket-reign. A parody of a hymn, "Toiling on," is also popular, and my Jersey mate gave it full vent on the left.

"Lager beer! lager beer!

There's a lager beer saloon across the way.

Lager bee-ee-eer!

Is there any lager beer to give away."

Although the G.o.ddess of music forgot me in the making, I found myself roaring out the chorus for all I was worth along with my Jersey friend.

"You're singing some!" he remarked, sarcastically, when the chorus came to an end. "But, no wonder! This night would make a bra.s.s monkey sing. It's grand to be alive!"

Every battalion has its marching songs. One of the favourites with us was written by a certain rifleman in "C" Company, sung to the air of "Off to Philadelphia in the Morning." It runs:

"It is said by our commanders that in trenches out by Flanders There is work to do both trying and exciting, And the men who man the trenches, they are England's men and French's Where the legions of the khaki-clad are fighting.

Though bearing up so gaily they are waiting for us daily, For the fury of the foemen makes them nervous, But the foe may look for trouble when we charge them at the double, We, the London Irish out on active service.

_Chorus._

"With our rifles on our shoulder, sure there's no one could be bolder, And we'll double out to France when we get warnin'

And we'll not stop long for trifles, we're the London Irish Rifles, When we go to fight the Germans in the mornin'.

"An' the girls: oh it will grieve them when we take the train and leave them, Oh! what tears the dears will weep when we are moving, But it's just the old, old story, on the path that leads to Glory, Sure we cannot halt for long to do our loving.

They'll see us with emotion all departing o'er the ocean, And every maid a-weepin' for her lover; 'Good-bye' we'll hear them callin', while so many tears are fallin'

That they'd almost swamp the boat that takes us over.

_Chorus._

"With our rifles," etc.

Our colonel sang this song at a concert, thus showing the democratic nature of the New Army, where a colonel sings the songs written in the ranks of his own battalion.

At the ten minutes' halt which succeeded the first hour's march, my Jersey friend spoke to me again. "Aren't there stars!" he said, turning his face to the heavens and gripping his rifle tightly as if for support. His wide open eyes seemed to have grown in size, and were full of an expression I had never seen in them before. "I like the stars," he remarked, "they're so wonderful. And to think that men are killing each other now, this very minute!" He clanked the b.u.t.t of his gun on the ground and toyed with the handle of his sword.

Hour after hour pa.s.sed by; under the light of the moon the country looked beautiful; every pond showed a brilliant face to the heavens, light mists seemed to hover over every farmhouse and cottage; light winds swept through the telegraph wires; only the woods looked dark, and there the trees seemed to be hugging the darkness around them.

On our way back a sharp shower, charged with a penetrating cold, fell.

The waterproof ground-sheets were unrolled, and we tied them over our shoulders. When the rain pa.s.sed, the water falling in drops from our equipment glittered so brightly that it put the polished swords and brilliant rifle b.u.t.t-plates to shame.

We stole into the town at midnight, when nearly all the inhabitants were abed. With arms at the trail, we marched along, throwing off company after company, at the streets where they billeted. The battalion dwindled down slowly; my party came to a halt, and the order "Dismiss!" was given, and we went to our billets. The Jersey youth came with me to my doorstep.

"'Twas a grand march!" he remarked.

"Fine," I replied.

"I can't help looking at the stars!" he said as he moved off. "There are a lot to-night. And to think--" He hesitated, with the words trembling on his tongue, realising that he was going to repeat himself. "Anyway, there's some stars," he said in a low voice. "Good night!"

There is a peculiar glamour about all night work. The importance of night manoeuvring was emphasised in the South African War, and we had ample opportunities of becoming accustomed to the darkness. On one occasion at about nine o'clock we swung out from the town with our regimental pipe-band playing to pursue some night operations. So far the men did not know what task had been a.s.signed to them.

"We've got to do to-night's work as quiet as a growing mushroom,"

someone whispered to me, as we took our way off the road and lined up in the field that, stretching out in front and flanks, lost itself in formless mistiness under the loom of the encircling hedgerows. Here and there in the distance trees stand up gaunt and bare, holding out their leafless branches as if in supplication to the grey sky; a slight whisper of wind moaned along the ground and died away in the darkness.

Our officer, speaking in a low voice, gave instructions. "The enemy is advancing to attack us in great force," he explained, "and our scouts have located him some six miles away from here. We have now found that it is inadvisable to march on any farther, as our reinforcements are not very strong and have been delayed to rear. Therefore we have decided to take up our present position as a suitable ground for operations and entrenching ourselves in--ready to give battle.

Everything now must be done very quickly. Our lives will, perhaps, depend at some early date on the quickness with which we can hide ourselves from the foe. So; dig your trench as quickly as possible, as quickly, in fact, as if your life depended on it. Work must be done in absolute silence; no smoking is allowed, no lighting of matches, no talk.

"A word about orders. Commands are not to be shouted, but will be pa.s.sed along from man to man, and none must speak above his breath.

The pa.s.sing of messages along in this manner is very difficult; words get lost, and unnecessary words are added in transit. But I hope you'll make a success of the job. Now we'll see how quickly we can get hidden!"

A "screen" of scouts (one man to every fifty yards of frontage) took up its place in line a furlong ahead. A hundred paces to rear of the "screen" the officers marked out the position of the trenches, placing soldiers as markers on the imaginary alignment. In front lay a clear field of fire, a deadly area for an enemy advancing to the attack.

We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows.

In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.

"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"