And I'm supposed to be telling you about billets!
Well, I told you before, how we took over from another Company; and the same holds good of how the other Company takes over from us in the trenches; and when it's over our fellows file out down the long communication trench, by platoons, with a goodish interval between men, so as to minimise the effect of chance bullets and shells; every man carrying all his own mud-caked goods and chattels, and all in good spirits at the prospects of a little change. Nothing Tommy welcomes so much as change—unless it's the chance of a scrap.
We cannot very well form up and march properly directly we get out of trenches at Ambulance Corner, because Fritz is so fond of directing his field-gun practice there; so we rather straggle over the next quarter of a mile, by platoons, till we come to the little river. It's a jolly little stream, with a regular mill-race of a current, and a nice clear shallow reach close to the bridge, with clean grass alongside. We wade right in and wash boots. Everyone is wearing "boots, trench, gum, thigh," so he just steps into the river and washes the mud off. Then he gets back to the bank, and off with the gum-boots and on with the ordinary marching boots, which have been carried slung round the neck by their laces. The trench boots, clean and shiny now, are handed into store at Brigade Headquarters, ready for our next turn in, for anyone else who wants 'em. In store, they are hung up to dry, you know, for, though no wet from outside will ever leak into these boots (unless they're cut), yet, being water-and air-tight, they get pretty wet inside after a week's turn in trenches, from condensation and the moisture of one's own limbs which has no chance of evaporation. It's the same with the much-vaunted trench-coats, of course; a few hours' wear makes 'em pretty damp inside.
After handing in the boots, we form up properly for marching into the village. Our Company Quartermaster-Sergeant, with a N.C.O. from each platoon, has been ahead a few hours before us, to take over billets from the Q.M.S. of the Company that relieved us; and so each platoon has a guide to meet it, just as in taking over a line of trenches. Either in or close to every billet, there are cellars marked up outside for so many men. These are our bolt-holes, to which every man is instructed to run and take shelter the instant a bombardment begins. "Abri 50 hommes"; or "Cellar for 30 men"; these are the legends you see daubed outside the cellars. And chalked on the gates of the house-yards throughout the village you will see such lines as "30 Men, 'A' Coy."; or "2 Off.'s, 30 Men, 'B' Coy."; and, perhaps, the initials of the regiment.
But when I mention billets you mustn't think of the style in which you billeted those four recruits last spring, you know. By Jove, no! It is laid down that billets in France mean the provision of shelter from the elements. Sometimes it's complete shelter, and sometimes it isn't; but it's always the best the folk can give. In this village, for instance, there are hardly any inhabitants left. Ninety per cent. of the houses are empty, and a good many have been pretty badly knocked about by shells. I have often laughed in remembering your careful anxiety about providing ash-trays and comfortable chairs for your recruits last year; and the trouble you took about cocoa last thing at night, and having the evening meal really hot, even though the times of arrival with your lodgers might be a bit irregular. It's not quite like that behind the firing line, you know.
In some places the men's billets are all barns, granaries, sheds and stables, cow-houses, and the like. Here, they are nearly all rooms in empty houses. As for their condition, that, like our cocoa of a night, and cooking generally, is our own affair. In our Division, discipline is very strict about billets. They are carefully inspected once or twice during each turnout by the Commanding Officer, and every day by the O.C. Company and the Platoon Commanders. We have no brooms, brushes, or dusters, except what we can make. But the billets have to be very carefully cleaned out twice a day, and there must be no dirt or crumbs or dust about when they are inspected. Even the mire of the yards outside has to be scraped and cleared away, and kept clear; and any kind of destruction, like breaking down doors or anything of that sort, is a serious crime, to be dealt with very severely. The men thoroughly understand all this now, and the reason of it; and they are awfully good. They leave every place cleaner and better than they found it.
In the same way it has been strictly laid down that in their attitude towards the inhabitants the men must be scrupulous. And, by Jove, they are! Wherever our troops are you will find men in khaki helping the women with their washing, drawing water, feeding stock, bringing in cows, getting in wood, and all such matters; and if our fellows haven't much French, I can assure you they are chattering in some sort of a language most of the time. And if all this is incomprehensible to the good Frenchwomen, how is it that the latter respond with so lively a chatter, and why are they always smiling and laughing the while—even when one sees that in their eyes which tells more plainly than the mourning they wear of sacrifices they have made in the service of France? Come to think of it, do you know, that sums up the attitude of all the French women I have met, and of the old men of France, too; and it's an attitude which compels respect, while it elicits sympathy. They smile with their lips, and in the brave hearts of them they smile, too; even though they cannot altogether hide either the wearing anxiety of waiting, or, where bereavement has come, the grief of mourning for brave men lost, which shows in their eyes.
In the first convenient archway handy to our billets you will find the Company's field cooker. You have seen them trailing across the Plain down Salisbury way on field days—the same old cookers. The rations come there each day, from the Battalion Q.M. store, three miles away; and there the men draw them in their cooked form at meal-times. In every village there is a canteen where men buy stuff like chocolate, condensed milk, tinned café-au-lait, biscuits, cake, and so forth.
In the day-time, when there are no carrying fatigues, we have frequent inspections, and once the first day out of trenches is past, every man's equipment has to be just so, and himself clean-shaven and smart. We have a bath-house down near the river, where everyone soaks in huge tubs of hot water; and in the yard of every billet you will find socks, shirts, and the like hanging out to dry after washing. By 8.30 at night all men not engaged in carrying fatigues have turned in. During the week out of trenches we get all the sleep we can. There are football matches most afternoons, and sing-songs in the early evenings. And all and every one of these things are subject to one other thing—strafe; which, according to its nature, may send us to our cellars, or to the manning of support trenches and bridge-head defences.
With regard to the officers, our batmen cook our grub, moderately well or atrociously badly, according to their capacity. But, gradually, they are all acquiring the soldierly faculty of knocking together a decent meal out of any rough elements of food there may be available. More often than not we do quite well. Our days are pretty much filled up in looking after the men, and in the evenings, after supper, we have their letters to censor, our own to write, if we are energetic enough, and a yarn and a smoke round whatever fire there may be before turning in; after which the Boche artillery is powerless to keep us awake. At this present moment I doubt whether there's another soul in "A" Company, besides myself, who's awake, except the sentry outside headquarters. And I shall be asleep in about as long as it takes me to sign myself your