MARCHING
Wehave left the statue of the Virgin Mary which pends horizontally over the Rue de Bapaume far behind us and the great bivouacs, and the shell-pitted soil of the Somme front. Only at night can we see the flickering glare to the southward, and the ceaseless drum of the guns back yonder is like the drone of a swarm of bees. Yesterday we reached the last village we shall see in Picardy, and this morning we shall march out of the Departement de la Somme, whither we know not.
It is one of those wonderful mid-October days when the sun rises red above a light, low mist, and land sparkling with hoar-frost; when the sky is azure blue, the air clean and cold, and the roads white and hard. A day when the “fall-in” sounds from rolling plain to wooded slope and back again, clear and mellow, and when the hearts of men are glad.
“Bat-ta-lion ... Shun!”
It does one good to hear the unison of sound as the heels come together, and a fewmoments later we have moved off, marching to attention down the little main street of Blondin-par-la-Gironde, with its 300 inhabitants, old, old church, and half-dozen estaminets. Madame, where we billeted last night, and her strapping daughter Marthe, are standing on the doorstep to see us go by. “Bonjour, M’sieurs, Au revoir, Bonne chance!”
“Left, left, left—ri—left,” the pace is short, sharp, and decisive, more like the Rifle Brigade trot. Even the backsliders, the men who march as a rule like old women trying to catch a bus, have briskened up this morning. Looking along the column from the rear one can see that rhythmical ripple which betokens the best marching, and instinctively the mind flashes back to that early dawn three days ago—no, four—when they came out of the trenches, muddy, dead-beat, awesomely dirty, just able to hobble along in fours.
Ninety-six hours and what a change!
“March at ease.”
The tail of the column has passed the last little low cottage in the village, and the twenty-one kilometre “hike” has begun.Corporal McTavish, mindful that he was once a staff bugler, unslings his instrument, and begins—after a few horrid practice notes—to play “Bonnie Dundee,” strictly according to his own recollection of that ancient tune. The scouts and signallers are passing remarks of an uncomplimentary nature anent the Colonel’s second horse, which, when not trying to prance on the Regimental Sergeant-Major’s toes, shows an evil inclination to charge backwards through the ranks. The bombers are grousing, as usual; methodically, generally, but without bitterness. “They will not sing, they cannot play, but they can surely fight.”
“A” Company band consisting of the aforesaid Corporal McTavish, three mouth-organs, an accordion, a flute, and a piccolo, plus sundry noises, is heartily engaged with the air “I want togoback, IWANTtogo back(cres.), I want to go back (dim.), To the farm (pizzicato),” which changes after the first kilometre to “Down in Arizona where the Bad Men are.” They are known as the “Birds,” and not only do they whistle, but they also sing!
“B” Company is wrapped in gloom; they march with a grim determination, a “just-you-wait-till-I-catch-you” expression which bodes ill for somebody. Did not a rum-jar—a full jar of rum—vanish from the rations last night? Isn’t the Quartermaster—and the C.S.M.’s batman too—endowed with a frantic “hang-over” this morning? This world is an unfair, rotten kind of a hole anyhow. The Company wit, one Walters, starts to sing “And when I die.” He is allowed to proceed as far as “Just pickle my bones,” but “in alcohol” is barely out of his mouth when groans break in upon his ditty, coupled with loud-voiced protests to “Have a heart.”
For six months past “C” Company has rejoiced in the generic title of “Scorpions.” Their strong suit is limerics, the mildest of which would bring a blush to the cheek of an old-time camp-follower. Within the last twenty-four hours their O.C. has been awarded the Military Cross. His usually stern visage—somewhat belied by a twinkling blue eye—is covered with a seraphic smile. Cantering along the column comes the Colonel. The artists of the limeric subside. Pulling up, theC.O. about turns and holds out his hand. “I want to congratulate you, Captain Bolton. Well deserved. Well deserved. Honour to the regiment ... yes, yes ... excellent, excellent ... ahem ... thank you, thank you...!” With one accord the old scorpions, led by the Company Sergeant-Major, break into the refrain “See him smi-ling, see him smi-ling, see him smi-i-ling just now.” And Bolton certainly does smile.
By this time we have marched for an hour, and the signal comes to halt, and fall out on the right of the road. The men smoke, and the officers gather together in little groups. It is wonderful what ten minutes’ rest will do when a man is carrying all his worldly goods on his back.
A few minutes after starting out again we see ahead of us a little group of horses, and a red hat or twain, and red tabs. The Divisional Commanderandthe Brigadier. The Battalion takes a deep breath, slopes arms, pulls itself together generally, dresses by the right, and looks proud and haughty. There is a succession of “Eyes Rights” down the column, as each unit passes the reviewingbase, and then we all sigh again.That’sover for to-day!
On we march, through many quaint little old-world villages, every one of which is filled with troops, up hill and down dale, through woods, golden and brown, tramping steadily onward, a long green-brown column a thousand strong. Cussing the new drafts who fall out, cussing the old boots that are worn out, cussing the war in general, and our packs in detail, but none the less content. For who can resist the call of the column, the thought of the glorious rest when the march is done, and the knowledge that whatever we may be in years to come, just now we areIT!