Part 9

We faced to the front and on the command "Dismiss!" we all turned to the right, raised our picks and shovels and transferred them from our right hands to our left, touched the peaks of our caps with our right hands, turning the palms outwards, paused a moment and then broke away.

"Fall in, fall in--very bad, very bad, absolutely disgraceful!" bawled our infuriated C.O. "If you don't do it correctly this time, you'll get an hour's extra drill every day for a week! Now dismiss them again, Sergeant!"

The prospect of extra drill filled us with dismay. Sore shouldered, stiff, and aching in every limb, oppressed and wearied in mind and body, we only had one intense desire--to get away, to hide somewhere, to enjoy at least a brief spell of warmth and comfort.

The Sergeant gave the command, and we dismissed a second time. We went through the absurd performance with anxious punctiliousness, but three men, either through fear, weariness or carelessness, made some slight mistakes and their names were taken for extra drill.

As soon as the men were off the parade ground there was a wild stampede in the direction of the cook-house.

The scramble became a mad hustle. The men raced along the duckboards or splashed through the mud in a frantic attempt to get served first, pulling their mess-tins and plates out of their haversacks as they ran.

It was growing dark and a few snowflakes were floating about in the air. The sky was a murky leaden colour.

As I stood waiting in the dinner queue I had an imaginary fight with our Commanding Officer. I knocked him down and gloated over him as he lay sprawling in the mud with my hand savagely clutching his throat. Our pent up feelings often found relief in vindictive dreams.

The queue stretched along the duckboards and in between the tents like a dingy snake in the gathering gloom. It was rapidly growing in length as more and more men came hurrying up.

But the front of the cook-house was still closed. The men grew impatient and banged their plates and tins. There were shouts of "Get a move on." Fretful, smouldering impatience increased until it flared up in anger. "Get a bloody move on--we want somethin' ter eat after a 'ard day's work!... We've got a fine bloody lot o' cooks, keepin' us waitin' in the bloody cold--get a move on, for Christ's sake!"

The shout was taken up all along the line--"Get a bloody move on"--and tins and plates were banged until the uproar was deafening. It gradually died down again, although curses and resentful remarks were still frequent.

"'Tain't worth eatin' when yer do get it!"

"Bleed'n' stew, I s'pose, 'nough ter make yer go queer!"

"I wouldn't feed me dog on the stuff they give yer in the army--I wouldn't 'ave the cheek ter orfer it to 'im."

"Come on ... put a jerk in it"--the cry was taken up again. There was hooting and booing and banging of plates until pandemonium reigned once more.

Suddenly the shutter in front of the cook-house was pushed up and one of the cooks appeared in the opening. The booing changed into loud, ironical cheers:

"What yer bin doin' all day? Swingin' the lead?"

A squeaky voice retorted: "I've bin up since four in the mornin' workin' a bloody sight 'arder 'n what you 'ave. Yer never satisfied, yer bleed'n' lot o'...." The rest was drowned in a storm of derisive shouts.

Then the men in the queue took up the argument again.

"Yer too slow--yer could'n catch the measles!"

"You come an' do my job an' see 'ow yer like it!"

"Do your job! No bloody fear, why, 'tain't a man's job at all, it's only old women what goes inter the cook-'ouse."

"Go on, get a move on--don't stand there talkin'!"

Another cook appeared. He dipped his ladle into a receptacle behind the till and emptied into the first man's plate. The next man held out his plate, and then the next. The cumbrous serpent moved forward inch by inch while a counter movement began of men straggling back through the slush, holding up tins or plates of steaming stew.

Two candles were burning inside my tent. The men were sitting on their kits. The noisy manner in which they ate was irritating beyond measure.

After the meal I went over to the tent of a friend. He was sitting by a flickering candle in moody silence. I asked him to come with me to the village. He put on his great-coat and we walked along the duckboards on to the road. It was intensely dark and we were conscious of the silent fall of snow.

"What sort of a day did you have?" I asked.

"Undiluted misery. We marched to the quarry and when we got there we found there was nothing to do, because the train hadn't turned up. So we waited in the wind and snow, just walking up and down, stamping with our feet and trying to get warm. Lieutenant Rowlatt was in charge of us. He wouldn't let us leave the quarry or go into an estaminet. And he only gave us half an hour for dinner. Of course he spent most of the time in an estaminet himself, eating eggs and chips and flirting with the girl ... I couldn't keep warm and there was no shelter anywhere. It was like doing an eight-hour guard."