The company came to a halt in the village; we marched for three miles,
and the morning being a hot one we were glad to fall out and lie down
on the pavement, packs well up under our shoulders and our legs
stretched out at full length over the kerbstone into the gutter. The
sweat stood out in beads on the men's foreheads and trickled down
their cheeks on to their tunics. The white dust of the roadway settled
on boots, trousers, and putties, and rested in fine layers on
haversack folds and cartridge pouches. Rifles and bayonets, spotless
in the morning's inspection, had lost all their polished lustre and
were gritty to the touch. We carried a heavy load, two hundred rounds
of ball cartridge, a loaded rifle with five rounds in magazine, a pack
stocked with overcoat, spare underclothing, and other field (p. 050)
necessaries, a haversack containing twenty-four hours rations, and
sword and entrenching tool per man. We were equipped for battle and
were on our way towards the firing line.
A low-set man with massive shoulders, bull-neck and heavy jowl had
just come out of an _estaminet_, a mess-tin of beer in his hand, and
knife and fork stuck in his putties.
"Going up to the slaughter line, mateys?" he enquired, an amused smile
hovering about his eyes, which took us all in with one penetrating
glance.
"Yes," I replied. "Have you been long out here?"
"About a matter of nine months."
"You've been lucky," said Mervin, my mate.
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