As a reward for his
ingenuity he receives a basin of water: sometimes the water is even
warm. Meanwhile Private Cosh, the linguist of the platoon, proffers
twopence, and says: "Doolay--ye unnerstand?" He gets a drink of milk,
which is a far, far better thing than the appalling green scum-covered
water with which his less adaptable brethren are wont to refresh
themselves from wayside ditches. Thomas Atkins, however mature, is
quite incorrigible in this respect.
Yes, we are getting on. And when every man in the platoon, instead
of merely some, can find a place to sleep, draw his blanket from the
waggon, clean his rifle and himself, and get to his dinner within the
half-hour already specified, we shall be able justly to call ourselves
seasoned.
We have covered some distance this week, and we have learned one thing
at least, and that is, not to be uppish about our sleeping quarters.
We have slept in chateaux, convents, farm-houses, and under the open
sky. The chateaux are usually empty. An aged retainer, the sole
inhabitant, explains that M. le Comte is at Paris; M. Armand at Arras;
and M. Guy in Alsace,--all doing their bit. M. Victor is in hospital,
with Madame and Mademoiselle in constant attendance.
So we settle down in the chateaux, and unroll our sleeping-bags upon
its dusty parquet. Occasionally we find a bed available. Then two
officers take the mattress, upon the floor, and two more take what is
left of the bed.
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