Part 8

"The job's got to be done this afternoon, my lads, but I'll try to get you a day off to-morrow. Who's in charge of the party?"

We pointed to Sergeant Hyndman. He was sitting in an improvised shelter in front of a fire, sipping hot tea. He had spent the greater part of the day there and had not observed the arrival of the officer, who was walking slowly towards him. Suddenly he jumped up and there was an exchange of words which we could not hear, although we tried hard to do so. The Sergeant came over to us, looking rather disconcerted, so we were able to guess the nature of the conversation.

We felt greatly encouraged and worked with renewed vigour. The stacks vanished one by one. Time appeared to slip by with gathering speed. A kind of common rhythm seemed to pervade our movements as we plodded to and fro with mechanical regularity.

The officer went up to the stacks from which we were removing the sleepers and made a mental calculation. "Only four hundred sleepers left now, boys--that's five apiece or ten to each pair. You'll soon be finished, and I've ordered lorries to take you home!"

His kindness did us good and we worked with a kind of grim determination. My partner was coming to the end of his strength. His knees were bent and from time to time he staggered, jerking the sleeper so as to make me wince with pain. But he kept up obstinately. We counted the sleepers as we received them--one, two, three and so on. This occupied our minds and the time passed all the more quickly. Eight ... nine ... ten! At last our work was done! "Thank God," said my partner with deep conviction. We rested against one of the newly erected stacks, but it was not long before Sergeant Hyndman came striding up and addressed us angrily. He had evidently been snubbed by the officer and was giving relief to his mortification by bullying us.

"What yer doin' there? Swingin' it on yer mates, are yer? Call yerselves sportsmen, do yer? Get back an' bloody well do yer bit!"

"We've done our share--there were four hundred sleepers left, which makes ten journeys for each pair. If it doesn't work out it's because some of the others have been swinging the lead behind the stacks. We've carried our ten and aren't going to do any more."

"Why d'yer let 'em swing it on yer? It's yer own bleed'n' fault! D'yer think I'm goin' ter stand over yer all day? Some o' you blokes is as 'elpless as a lot o' kids--yer want a wet nurse to look arter yer!"

"That's what you're there for, to look after us!"

"Don't bloody well tell me what I'm there for! I know me job an' don't want no tellin'. Get stuck into it an' don't let me 'ave any o' yer bloody lip, else yer'll be up fur orderly room--I shan't give yer another warnin'!"

Seeing that argument was useless, we walked away and crossed the railway lines. My partner growled: "I 'ope I meet 'im in civvy life--I'll give 'im somethin' ter think about--I've seen better things'n what 'e is crorlin' about in cheese!"

There were fifty or sixty sleepers left. We dawdled on our way back, hoping that there would be enough men in front of us to clear the lot. The officer shouted: "Come along, my lads, sharp's the word and quick's the action! You'll be finished in a few minutes."

The khaki-clad flock straggled forward. The remaining sleepers were loaded on to our shoulders--my partner and I received the last one. As we carried it off a cheer was raised by the other men.

At last the whistle blew and we fell in. The sky was still covered with dark, heavy clouds, but the snow had ceased to fall and the wind had dropped. We could see the dreary landscape a little better now. The railway lines curved away until, in the far distance, they ran into a ghostly procession of tall, slim poplars that filed across the dim horizon and marked the passage of a main road. On one side of the lines long rows of dark squares in the snow showed where the sleepers had lain before we moved them. A brown stretch of churned and trodden mud and water connected them with the new stacks that extended in four rows along the other side of the lines. We had shifted five thousand eight hundred sleepers in all. Around us were level, snow-covered fields unrelieved by anything except an occasional tree and the farm. It consisted of three buildings, a house and two big barns, forming three sides of a square. The cottage had a low, thatched roof, dirty, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. In the middle of the square was a huge muck heap, covered with patches of melting snow. A pig was pushing its snout into it here and there and grunting from time to time. There was no other sign of life anywhere. A dreary, depressing landscape!

"Remember Belgium!" said one of the men in the ranks derisively.

"We won't forget it in a hurry!"

"Fritz can have it for all I care!"

"He's welcome to it--I don't want it, I want to get back to Blighty!"

We were called to attention. The promised lorries were waiting for us--three lorries for eighty men. We marched towards them in file, but as we got nearer to them, the men broke rank and everybody rushed wildly to get in first so as to secure any available boxes or petrol-tins that might serve as seats. A noisy, turbulent throng clustered round each lorry. We scrambled in, pushing, hustling, and swearing. We were soon so crowded together that there seemed to be no room for any more, but nevertheless more men climbed up and forced an entrance. We formed a compact mass and our picks and shovels were heaped on the floor in everybody's way.

The lorries started with a lurch so that we all staggered backwards. They raced along, and bumped, and swayed from side to side. The roof of the lorry in which I stood was so low that I had to keep my head bent forward all the time. The fumes from the exhaust made our eyes water and smart.

We reached camp after about half an hour's ride. We jumped out and lined up on the road. Sergeant Hyndman perceived the Commanding Officer strolling about amongst the tents and said to us in an awe-stricken voice:

"Smarten up a bit, for Christ's sake--there's the Captin walkin' about--don't make no bloomers when yer dismissin' else yer'll get extra shovel-drill an' get me into trouble in the bargin. Mind yer salute prop'ly.... Party--Tshn! Inter File, Right Turn! Quick March!"

We wheeled into the camp holding our picks and shovels at the trail. Our Commanding Officer stood still and watched us. As we passed him the Sergeant yelled out with unaccustomed sharpness: "Eyes--Right!" We all turned our heads smartly to the right and he saluted with strained, affected precision. The Captain touched the peak of his cap in a perfunctory manner. He hardly seemed to be looking at us at all, but suddenly he spotted a man who was not holding his shovel perfectly horizontally and thundered:

"Hold your shovel properly, that man there!"

The man was disconcerted for a moment but soon re-adjusted his shovel to the satisfaction of his superior. The ground was so muddy and uneven that it was sometimes impossible to keep the exact military formation. Without having noticed it, I was a little more than the regulation distance from the man in front of me.

"Close in there, you with the glasses," bawled the Captain in a resentful voice, as though my transgression were intended as a personal insult. But his anger was diverted by another man and he shouted with gathering fury:

"That tall man over there--hold your pick properly. Not like that, damn it ... hold it at the point of balance--no, no, no, not like that ... here, Sergeant, take that man's name and number and give it to the Corporal of the Police. He'll do half an hour's extra shovel-drill this evening."

We halted. The Sergeant made a note of the offender's name and then said to us in an awestruck whisper: "Now mind yer dismiss prop'ly for Christ's sake!"