And at the top of the dugout I could hear the runner gradually recovering his breath and explaining the strategic situation in spasms.
“You see, I heard the captin say to the adjutant, ‘Jones,’ he says, ‘the Jerrys’ got as far as Bullecourt,’ and when I heard that ... well ... I said to myself ... thank ’eavens I wasn’t there.”
“And you was there two months ago, Kid.”
“Where I was two months ago, as you say, and then I heard the captin say....”
The remaining reflection was inaudible.
The next morning passed very quietly, so quietly that we had almost forgotten the rumours of the preceding day. The limber corporal had assured the ration party that there had been a counter-attack with tanks, and that not only had Bullecourt been retaken, but Hendecourt and Riencourt as well. There seemed no cause for panic. The rum had come up as usual, and that was the main thing. After an afternoon of belt-cleaning the subsection arranged itself as usual into night reliefs, and then just before midnight came the news that the Division was evacuating to the “third” line.
Whenever the military decide on a sudden action, they impart the information in a delightfully inconsequent way. For instance, on the eve of the Cambrai show, orders were sent round that in the case of an enemy withdrawal limbers would proceed to Hendecourt along the road in the map square U 29 B, and this request was then qualified by the statement, “It is no good looking for roads; there are none.”
On this occasion the message was equally vague. It stated that the front system would be evacuated at 3 a.m., and ordered that all guns, tripods, belt-boxes, and ammunition would be immediately moved and stacked at the ration dump pending the arrival of limbers. The chit then added, “Secrecy is absolutely essential. On no account must the men know anything of this.” The reasons on which the authorities based their expectations that the men would move all their impedimenta to a ration dump, and yet remain in complete ignorance of the operation, are unfathomable. At any rate their hopes were unrealised. At the first mention of dismounted guns, Private Hawkins had sniffed the secret.
“Got to shift, ’ave we, Sir? Then I suppose we’re going to have a war too, aren’t we, Sir?”
“I should not be surprised,” I told him, and went below to superintend the packing of my kit. It was no easy matter. Things accumulate in the line; I always went up the line with a modestly filled pack, but by the time I came down, it needed a mailbag to hold the books and magazines that had gradually gathered round me, and after a fortnight in the same dugout my kit was in no condition for emergency transportation.