The Amateur Army | Page 6

rheumatic one and I went out together.
"That's wot they do to a man that's sick," said the rheumatic one when

we got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's light
duties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderly
room and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you
'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your own
bit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers' mess,
or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Light duties ain't
arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't ten times better, and I'm
going to grease to the battalion parade."
Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversack on the
wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gun unfastened;
his whole general appearance was a discredit to his battalion and a
disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentable as he bellowed
his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin'," he said. "Left
my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no time for it now. Anyway
I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me. I know what they
are." He was still protesting against the hardships of things as he swung
out of sight round the corner of the street. Afterwards I heard that he
got three days C.B. for disobeying the orders of the M.O.
Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practically
immune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course,
sprains and cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of
the battalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches," a
company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agrees
with him.

CHAPTER III
PICKETS AND SPECIAL LEAVE
One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral
town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki.
Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture
alone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in a
body when led by a commissioned officer.

The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by this
narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now visit
his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. The housemaid
from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to come to
their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town are single,
and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that five or six thousand
maidens blush to hear the old, old story within the two-mile limit every
week-end.
Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and then
he has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of 3
p.m. on Saturday and 10 p.m. on Sunday. His pass states that during
this time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men use one
pass for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit every occasion.
One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled from
London by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my
division, and only one-half of these had true passes; one, who was an
adept calligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a counterfeit
signature of the superior who should have signed the form of leave.
Another had altered the dates of an early pass so cleverly that it was
difficult to detect the erasure, and a number of men had no passes
whatsoever. These boasted of having travelled to London every
week-end, and they had never been caught napping.
Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to
which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of
this, and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two
crawled under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they
lay quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with
several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not
deign to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible
from the platform window.
"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket
jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure in
khaki fumbled with the door handle.

"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket,
entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, the
one he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspection
he slyly slipped it behind the back of