“Wake up, you bloodthirsty warriors,” he cried. “Wake up. You’re for a draft to-morrow all of you on this list,” and he read out the names of all of us in the room who had been passed out. “Parade at the Quartermaster’s stores at nine o’clock in the morning.” And out went the light and the door slammed and a burst of cheering went up.
And while I lay on my “biscuits,” imagining France and hearing in my mind the thunder of guns and wondering what our first charge would be like, the machinery which my friend had set in motion was rolling slowly (shades of the War Office!) but surely. My name had been submerged in the “usual channels” but was receiving first aid, all unknown to me, of a most vigorous description.
12
Shall I ever forget that week-end, with all its strength of emotions running the gamut from exaltation to blank despair and back again to the wildest enthusiasm?
We paraded at the Quartermaster’s stores and received each a kit bag, two identity discs—the subject of many gruesome comments—a jack-knife, mess tin, water bottle, haversack, and underclothes. Thus were we prepared for the killing.
Then the Major appeared and we fell in before him.
“Now which of you men want to go to the front?” said he. “Any man who wants to, take one pace forward.”
As one man the whole lot of us, about thirty, took one pace forward.
The Major smiled. “Good,” said he. “Any man not want to go—prove.”
No man proved.