You have asked me once or twice about billets, and I ought to have told you more about them before; only there seems such a lot to pick and choose from that when I do sit down to write I seldom get on to the particular story I mean to tell. And that reminds me, I didn't tell you of the odd thing that happened the night we came out into billets this time. The Boche had finished his customary evening Hymn of Hate, or we thought he had, and while the men were filing into their different billets the C.S.M. proceeded to post our Company guard outside Company Headquarters. He had just given the sentry his instructions and turned away, when Boche broke out in a fresh place—their battery commander's evening sauerkraut had disagreed with him, or something—and half a dozen shells came whistling over the village in quick succession. One landed in the roadway, a yard and a half Now that sentry happened to be our friend Tommy Dodd; and Tommy was about tired out. He'd been on a wiring party over the parapet three parts of the night, taken his turn of sentry-go in the other part; and all day long had been digging and mud-scooping, like the little hero he is, to finish repairing an impassable bit of trench that master Boche had blown in the evening before, to make it safe before we handed over to the Company relieving. He was literally caked in clay from head to foot; eyebrows, moustache, and all; he hadn't a dry stitch on him, and, of course, had not had his supper. It was an oversight that he should have been detailed for first sentry-go on our arrival in billets. I had noticed him marching up from the trenches; he could hardly drag one foot after another. What do you think the shell landing at his feet and showering mud on him extorted from weary "'Ere, not so much of it, Mister Boche! You take it from me an' be a bit more careful like. Silly blighter! Wotjer playin' at? Didn't yer know I was on sentry? Chuckin' yer silly shells about like that! If yer ain't more careful you'll be dirty'n me nice clean uniform nex', an' gettin' me paraded over for bein' dirty on sentry-go!" It's a pretty good spirit, isn't it? And I can assure you it runs right through; warranted fast colour; and as for standing the wash—well, Tommy Dodd had been up to his middle in muddy water most of the day. The Kaiser may have a pretty big military organisation, but, believe me, Germany and Austria together don't contain anything strong enough to dull, let alone break the spirit of the men of the New Army. The Army's new enough; but the tradition and the spirit are from the same old bin. It isn't altered; and there's nothing better; not anywhere in the world. And I'm supposed to be telling you about billets! Well, I told you before, how we took over from another Company; and the same holds good of how the other Company takes over from us in the We cannot very well form up and march properly directly we get out of trenches at Ambulance Corner, because Fritz is so fond of directing his field-gun practice there; so we rather straggle over the next quarter of a mile, by platoons, till we come to the little river. It's a jolly little stream, with a regular mill-race of a current, and a nice clear shallow reach close to the bridge, with clean grass alongside. We wade right in and wash boots. Everyone is wearing "boots, trench, gum, thigh," so he just steps into the river and washes the mud off. Then he gets back to the bank, and off with the gum-boots and on with the ordinary marching boots, which have been carried slung round the neck by their laces. The trench boots, clean and shiny now, are handed into store at Brigade Headquarters, ready for our next turn After handing in the boots, we form up properly for marching into the village. Our Company Quartermaster-Sergeant, with a N.C.O. from each platoon, has been ahead a few hours before us, to take over billets from the Q.M.S. of the Company that relieved us; and so each platoon has a guide to meet it, just as in taking over a line of trenches. Either in or close to every billet, there are cellars marked up outside for so many men. These are our bolt-holes, to which every man is instructed to run and take shelter the instant a bombardment begins. "Abri 50 hommes"; or "Cellar for 30 men"; these are the legends you see daubed outside the cellars. And chalked on the gates of the house-yards throughout the village you will see such lines as "30 Men, 'A' Coy."; But when I mention billets you mustn't think of the style in which you billeted those four recruits last spring, you know. By Jove, no! It is laid down that billets in France mean the provision of shelter from the elements. Sometimes it's complete shelter, and sometimes it isn't; but it's always the best the folk can give. In this village, for instance, there are hardly any inhabitants left. Ninety per cent. of the houses are empty, and a good many have been pretty badly knocked about by shells. I have often laughed in remembering your careful anxiety about providing ash-trays and comfortable chairs for your recruits last year; and the trouble you took about cocoa last thing at night, and having the evening meal really hot, even though the times of arrival with your lodgers might be a bit irregular. It's not quite like that behind the firing line, you know. In some places the men's billets are all barns, granaries, sheds and stables, cow-houses, and the like. Here, they are nearly all rooms in empty houses. As for their condition, that, like our cocoa of a night, and cooking generally, is our own In the same way it has been strictly laid down that in their attitude towards the inhabitants the men must be scrupulous. And, by Jove, they are! Wherever our troops are you will find men in khaki helping the women with their washing, drawing water, feeding stock, bringing in cows, getting in wood, and all such matters; and if our fellows haven't much French, I can assure you they are chattering in some sort of a language In the first convenient archway handy to our billets you will find the Company's field cooker. You have seen them trailing across the Plain down Salisbury way on field days—the same old cookers. The rations come there each day, from the Battalion Q.M. store, three miles away; and there the men draw them in their cooked form at meal-times. In every village there is a canteen where men buy stuff like chocolate, condensed In the day-time, when there are no carrying fatigues, we have frequent inspections, and once the first day out of trenches is past, every man's equipment has to be just so, and himself clean-shaven and smart. We have a bath-house down near the river, where everyone soaks in huge tubs of hot water; and in the yard of every billet you will find socks, shirts, and the like hanging out to dry after washing. By 8.30 at night all men not engaged in carrying fatigues have turned in. During the week out of trenches we get all the sleep we can. There are football matches most afternoons, and sing-songs in the early evenings. And all and every one of these things are subject to one other thing—strafe; which, according to its nature, may send us to our cellars, or to the manning of support trenches and bridge-head defences. With regard to the officers, our batmen cook our grub, moderately well or atrociously badly, according to their capacity. But, gradually, they are all acquiring the soldierly faculty of knocking together a decent meal out of any rough elements of food there may be available. More often than "Temporary Gentleman." |