You picture a vividly green lorry of a big whisky distillery up North axle to axle with the scarlet of a Brixton firm with its blatant advertisement of somebody's corsets. The cockney driver from a London furnishing house exchanged honeyed words with a colleague from "'twixt Trent and Tweed" in a polite inquiry as to why the hell he couldn't let his tail-board down without using his (the Londoner's) radiator to scrape his boots on.
"Can't you imagine Tommy's comments when he finds a 'Johnny Walker' van bringing up his ammunition in the wilds of Belgium," was the general remark, "but I suppose they'll give them a coat of paint first."
They didn't, as a matter of fact; at least not for several months, so that Tommy was able to indulge his gift of language to the full.
And so nearly two days passed. The men amused themselves by wandering about the docks, wondering at the shipping, and making sarcastic remarks about the lorry drivers who were being taught how to handle a rifle.
Then came a telegram from H.Q., Aldershot.
"Return and report here immediately."
"Good," said the senior sergeant to me, "I always did like Aldershot. But we've had quite a pleasant holiday seeing the country."
The draft duly paraded again, and when they learned their next destination their remarks were a joy to listen to.
We caught a 9.0 train in the evening into Bristol. Then we marched across the city, a matter of, say, three miles. It was a Sunday night, the good citizens were abed. But my lads were determined to show that they were by no means downhearted.
The march across was one long pageant of melody. "I'm going home to Dixie" was prime favourite, and splendidly they sang it in harmony. Then some evening hymns, then more rag-time—they were really excellent exponents of that difficult art—then "Onward, Christian Soldiers"; but never a note of "Tipperary." That immortal chorus had not yet "arrived."