A small crowd had gathered round the man who had fallen by the pond. He was laid on to a stretcher. He seemed rather dazed but did not look pale. A shrapnel ball had hit him in the back.
The human loads were pushed into the ambulance which disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Our anxiety had deepened. Many of us were walking up and down in agitation. Nevertheless, there was no hysteria and no ignominious expression of fear as there had been on the previous night.
At last the railway engine appeared, to the immense relief of everyone. We climbed into the trucks and the return journey began. The shelling continued unabated. Above the belt of poplars a little black speck was moving along at great speed. Around it and trailing behind it were numerous black puffs. The frogs had resumed their concert.
When we reached our destination we were met by several others of our unit who had arrived during the afternoon and were quartered in the town. Two of my friends were amongst them and together we walked over to their billet.
We entered a huge bare room and sat down on some of the kits that were arranged neatly round the floor.
"What sort of a time have you had?" I asked.
"Bloody awful.... The S.M. and the C.O. have been making our lives a misery. We've had umpteen extra drills and parades and kit inspections. There've been at least a dozen orderly-room cases and several court martials since you left. You know Deacon? He got fourteen days. Fritz has been over a good bit lately and we have to put out our lights as soon as it gets dark, else we'd cop out for sure. Well, one of our Sergeants had a candle burning in his tent and the flap wide open—you could have seen it a mile off, you've no idea how a candle shows at night-time! We heard the archies firing in the distance and we yelled, 'Put out that light!' The Sergeant didn't take any notice though—he was reading a book. So Deacon, who's got a decent bit of pluck, walked across and asked him to blow out his candle. The Sergeant told him to mind his own bloody business. So Deacon said he'd blow the candle out himself. The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to sling his bloody hook. Deacon got wild too—he's one of those fellows who won't stand any nonsense—and blew out the candle. The Sergeant went off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest. Deacon got a District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination. They gave him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way. They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full glare of the sun.
"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain—our rations aren't so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote: 'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off, though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and shouted, 'What are you grinning at—anything foonny?' Fletcher said, 'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M. shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we were standing to attention. Peter started talking—you could hear him as loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin' there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper. Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter replied, 'Cacoethes loquendi.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.
"I tell you, I'm jolly glad to be away from headquarters. We've got old Rusty in charge of us. He's been a bit of a worry-guts about having cleaned boots and buttons ever since he got his second pip, but he's quite a decent old stick taking him all round. He gets drunk every evening, so that he's generally too far gone to trouble about lights out. He doesn't make a fuss over our letters either—I believe he can only read a very plain hand and has to skip the longer words. A good job, too, for that's one thing I absolutely cannot stick, the way all our letters are read....