Combed Out | Page 5

fact that a man possesses authority separates him
from his fellows. How could it be otherwise? What man capable of
genuine friendship could bear to exert authority over his comrades with
the obligation to inflict punishment on them if he should think it
"necessary"? To dominate is worse than to be dominated. The very
feeling that a man has power over others gives him an exaggerated
notion of his own importance and merits, it arouses latent brutality, it
fosters grandiose thinking (that terribly harmful vice of nearly all our
statesmen). Indeed, most of the cruelty and injustice in the world are
due to the demoralizing influence of authority. And that is why there
were some amongst us who would not have accepted promotion
whatever material advantages it might have brought.

How could our officers, seeing that they had authority and did not live
our lives, understand us and treat us as we ought to have been treated, if
they were not men of exceptional imagination, sympathy, and intuition?
We never had an officer who was really a bad man. At heart they were
all good, kindly men--and yet how often we suffered from their lack of
something more than mere goodness!
* * * * *
We were twelve in a tent and going to bed always tried our tempers
severely. Some of us would come in with muddy boots and tread on the
blankets of the others. Those who went to bed early could stretch out
their legs until their feet touched the tent-pole. Those who arrived later
would have to wedge themselves in as best they could and remain with
knees drawn up for the rest of the night--any attempt at forcing them
down would be sure to create a disturbance and lead to a furious
dispute and an exchange of insults and obscenities. When we were all
in bed, no one could stir without causing inconvenience to his
neighbours. A sleepless night, invariably accompanied by the restless
impulse to stir and fidget, was unforgettable misery, but fortunately our
work was so hard that sleepless nights were very rare.
One morning when it was still dark and the others were snoring loudly
I looked at my watch. It was twenty past four. Reveillé would be at
half-past five, so I abandoned myself to more than another hour, so I
thought, of delicious indolence. I closed my eyes and was beginning to
doze and dream again when I heard the flop, flop of heavy feet treading
the mud and slush outside. The canvas of the tent was banged violently
and a voice, which I recognized as that of the Police Corporal, shouted:
"Reveillé--breakfast at 5 o'clock, parade at 5.30 with haversack
rations."
I started up in dismay and shouted:
"It's an hour too early! What's the matter?"
The Corporal answered resentfully:

"Never mind what's the matter--show a leg, and get a move on!"
He passed on to the next tent and repeated his order, and then to the
next, and so on, until his voice grew faint in the distance.
I was full of vexation at being deprived of the extra hour of sleep. I
could not understand why reveillé should be so early, unless it was my
watch that was wrong.
The other men in the tent began to stir. They sat up and groaned and
yawned and stretched out their arms, or turned round impatiently and
went to sleep again. One of them looked at his wrist-watch:
"Gorblimy, 'tain't 'alf-past four--what the bleed'n' 'ell d'they want to
wake us this time of a mornin' for? Some bloody fatigue, I bet yer!"
"Wha', ain't it 'ah'-past five?"
"'Alf-past five be blowed! 'Tain't 'alf-past four!"
"Why can't they let a bloke sleep of a mornin'!--they don't want yer ter
be comfortable, that's what it is. I bet yer me bottom dollar the C.O.
don't get up at this time!--'e don't get up afore ten or eleven, you bet yer
life. 'E 'as eggs an' bacon for 'is bloody breakfast wi' a batman ter wait
on 'im an' put plenty o' bloody sugar in 'is bleed'n' tea! All 'e does is ter
shout at us an' tell us orf when we comes back from work.
"Gorblimy--when's this bastard life goin' ter end! When I think o'
Sunday mornin' at 'ome wi' breakfast in bed an' the News of the World
wi' a decent divorce or murder, I feel fit ter cry me eyes out. Bloody
slavery, soldierin'! An' what's it all for? Nothin' at all--absolutely
nothin'! Why don't the 'eads come an' bloody well fight it out amongst
theirselves--why don't King George 'ave a go wi' Kaiser Bill? What
d'they want ter drag us out 'ere for ter do their dirty work for 'em? If I
was ter 'ave a row wi'