“My God,” thought Peter, “my God!”
Were these the lusty singing men he had known at Worthing, the cheery officers he had dined with at Shoreham—these dust-stained weary fellows, plodding two by two either side of the road? Hardly a sound came from their parched throats. Packs dragged at their shoulders; rifles dragged at their hands. Their faces were lined as the faces of old men. Sweat dripped from them. . . . A Company straggled by. Came his old company, Arkwright at their head.
“Hallo, Arkwright.”
“Hallo, P.J.”; and Arkwright rode on. Long Longstaffe and Private Haddock, trudging at his horse’s tail, looked up at the known name.
“Gawd,” said the little man, “if it ain’t our old P.J. ’Aven’t got anyfink to eat about yer, I suppose, sir?”
Others took up the cry: “P.J.! Gawblimey, it’s our old P.J. Ask P.J. ’E’ll give us somefink to eat. Somefink to eat, sir. For the love of Gawd. Somefink to eat. We can’t fight with nuffink in our stomachs, sir. . . .”
Peter ran forward; clutched Arkwright’s bridle. “What the Hell’s happened, Arkwright?”
The schoolmaster looked down from his horse. “I don’t know,” he said wearily, “I don’t know. We’ve been marching like this for three days. And the rations haven’t come. That’s all.”
Behind them, rose the heart-breaking voices: “P.J.! Yes, P.J., I tell yer. ’E’ll get us somefink to eat. Gawd! look at them ruddy gunners. They’ve got their rations, they have. ’Ere, mate, for the love of Gawd, just a bit of that bread.”
Some of the gunners ran out of the ruined house; proffered a crust or two. The men snatched at them; tore them with their teeth as they marched.