The equipments were taken in from the field of battle, the
war-harness of men now wounded and dead was out of use for the moment,
other soldiers would wear them presently and make great fight in them.
Once at Cuinchy, Section 3 went out for a wash in a dead stream (p. 232)
that once flowed through our lines and those of the Germans. The water
was dirty and it was a miracle that the frogs which frisked in it were
so clean.
"It's too dirty to wash there," said Pryor.
"A change of dirt is 'olesome," said Bill, placing his soap on the
bank and dipping his mess tin in the water. As he bent down the body
of a dead soldier inflated by its own rottenness bubbled up to the
surface. We gave up all idea of washing. Stoner who was on the
opposite bank tried to jump across at that moment. Miscalculating the
distance, he fell short and into the water. We dragged him out
spluttering and I regret to say we laughed, almost heartily. That
night when we stood to arms in the trenches, waiting for an attack
that did not come off, Stoner stood to with his rifle, an overcoat, a
pair of boots and a pair of socks as his sole uniform.
How many nights have we marched under the light of moon and stars,
sleepy and dog-weary, in song or in silence, as the mood prompted us
or the orders compelled us, up to the trenches and back again! We have
slept in the same old barns with cobwebs in the roof and straw (p. 233)
deep on the floor. We have sung songs, old songs that float on
the ocean of time like corks and find a cradle on every wave; new
songs that make a momentary ripple on the surface and die as their
circle extends outwards, songs of love and lust, of murder and great
adventure.
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