In short, fourteen men lying down in
a bell-tent cannot agree for very long, and a bell-tent is not a
paradise of sympathy and mutual agreement.
We rose early, washed and shaved, and found our way to the canteen, a
big marquee under the control of the Expeditionary Force, where bread
and butter, bacon and tea were served out for breakfast. Soldiers
recovering from wounds worked as waiters, and told, when they had a
moment to spare, of hair-breadth adventures in the trenches. They (p. 022)
found us willing listeners; they had lived for long in the locality
for which we were bound, and the whole raw regiment had a personal
interest in the narratives of the wounded men. Bayonet-charges were
discussed.
"I've been in three of 'em," remarked a quiet, inoffensive-looking
youth who was sweeping the floor of the room. "They were a bit 'ot,
but nothin' much to write 'ome about. Not like a picture in the
papers, none of them wasn't. Not much stickin' of men. You just ops
out of your trench and rush and roar, like 'ell. The Germans fire and
then run off, and it's all over."
After breakfast feet were inspected by the medical officer. We sat
down on our packs in the parade ground, took off our boots, and
shivered with cold. The day was raw, the wind sharp and penetrating;
we forgot that our sheepskins smelt vilely, and snuggled into them,
glad of their warmth. The M.O. asked questions: "Do your boots pinch?"
"Any blisters?" "Do you wear two pairs of socks?" &c.
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