CHAPTER III
OVERSEAS—STRAZEELE—FLEURBAIX—BAC ST. MAUR—RUE DU BOIS—RUE MARLE—RUE DORMOIRE
February 13th. It seems impossible to believe that to-morrow the battalion really embarks for France; that the long period of training and waiting has at last come to an end, and that to-morrow we embark on the enterprise for which we all joined up, and for which some of us have now been waiting two and a half years. The sceptics of the battalion even now throw doubts on it. Admitted that the Transport and Lewis gunners have gone; admitted that the entraining orders are issued for to-night; admitted that everything is packed and ready. We have been fooled before, and likely enough this is only a ruse of the War Office to give another fillip to our flagging spirits, such as they administered in the summer when the move seemed almost a certainty; so much so, in fact, that we all enjoyed a "last leave" and returned ready for the front, only to commence the dull round of general training once more.
The barracks present an air of subdued excitement. Men stand about in groups discussing soberly the prospect of active service, each wondering in his innermost soul how he will acquit himself in the unknown trials that are before him. After all, England is a comfortable place. Life proceeds quietly and peacefully in spite of the bugle calls, the shouts of N.C.Os., the almost inhuman activity of the "physical jerks expert," and the endless exhortations of the officers. May not one in a few days be looking back on all this with bitter regret, and wondering sadly why we were so anxious to quit it and to plunge into the dangers and discomforts of war; the real war, that is to say, not the war of "blanks" and umpires, from which one returns punctually for tea, and grouses if the battalion should be half an hour late?
The only really active people are the O. i/c Details and his myrmidons. Major Turner is seen hurrying across the barrack square, hot on the trail of some deficient item of barrack equipment. The Quartermaster smiles to himself as he looks forward to the day when "destroyed by enemy action" will be the conclusive answer to all inquiries into deficiencies.
Slowly the day drags on. For fear that anything should be late, everything has been finished hours too soon. One last visit is paid to our old haunts and our old friends, and now it is time to collect our kit and get ready for the parade—"the parade," we call it, because it is different from all others. Never since the days of 1914 have we paraded with such alacrity and "dressed" with such zeal. Weird rites prescribed by King's Regulations for regiments proceeding on active service are about to be performed. The moon shines brightly, as befits this solemn ceremony. Two sergeants, not proceeding with the battalion, are standing by while the roll is called, and woe betide the absentee with such witnesses to proclaim his guilt! Surely no one, having waited so long, will now miss the chance, but yet something seems to be wrong. Company Sergeant-Majors and the Regimental Sergeant-Major are in solemn conclave with the Orderly Sergeants. Two men are missing. Reference is promptly made to the Adjutant, who is standing by, and more discussion follows. It is all right, no one has missed his chance, but the Commanding Officer's and Adjutant's servants are proceeding by taxi to the station in charge of some kit.
And now it is time to move off. As companies in turn form fours and move out of the barrack gate, it is odd to feel that we shall never again execute this familiar movement on this well-remembered spot. Quietly, in the dead of night, we move down on the frosty road to Brookwood Station. The battalion is to go in two trains, with a short interval between, the second train under the orders of Major C. W. Wilson. At Brookwood the ladies of the district are dispensing hot drinks and buns. Modern conditions have taken away the glamour of war. No longer do we leave for the fight amid a crowd of cheering people, with flags flying and bugles blowing. The ladies of Brookwood, and our unlucky pals who could not bluff the doctor, are the only ones to see us depart, but their send-off leaves nothing to be desired.
The run to Folkestone was only a matter of a couple of hours, and the early morning light saw us detraining at the Jetty Station. Here the arrangements were excellent. The R.T.O. was full of information, and guides appeared to conduct the troops to the Rest Camp. This was a crescent of pre-war lodging-houses and an hotel, all railed in. As the companies marched through the gate, the guides took them to their destined houses, where breakfast was served. The officers were conducted to the hotel and similarly provided for. The hour of parade for embarkation was simultaneously communicated to officers and men.
There were several hours to wait even after a shave and a breakfast, but the time passed quickly enough. After all, it was our last sight of England, perhaps for all time, and we were not in quite so much of a hurry as a week before. At 12.30 p.m. we marched on board s.s. Victoria, one of the regular cross-Channel boats. Besides ourselves there were innumerable officers and men returning from leave, who glanced with casual interest at the obviously new crowd going out for the first time. The Commanding Officer was O.C. Ship, and consequently entitled to a cabin, where wonderful instructions dealing with action in event of submarine attack, etc., were to be found. There was also an amusing notebook in which Os.C. Ships were asked to make their comments on the ship. The names of many distinguished Generals were to be found among the signatures, and some of the remarks were highly entertaining.