(Censor at work again.)
In preparation for the European winter in store for us, about which so much has been written and spoken at home, and by which so much Red Cross knitting and tea-drinking have been inspired—as a preparation for this, the weather is becoming intolerably hot. As we approach the line the best traditions of that vicinity are being maintained. We wake in the morning with that sense of lassitude you read of as the regular matutinal sensation of the Anglo-Indian in Calcutta. At six o'clock the sun beats down—or beats along—with as much effect as he achieves high in the heavens in the early Australian summer. No sluggard sleeping on deck but would rather get up and under cover than remain stewing in the oblique, biting rays. At the breakfast-mess, situated in as cool and strategic a position as the brazen sergeants could get chosen, you perspire as though violently exercising. In a few isolated cases this is justified; but as the day wears on you perspire without provocation of any sort. The men on their improvised troop-decks are in hell—and use a language and attitude appropriate in the circumstances. Not unnaturally, you see the most grotesque attires designed to make life tolerable. To the devil with uniformity! Men must first live. The general effect is motley. Leggings and breeches and regimental boots are not to be seen—except on the unhappy sentry. A following wind blows upon us, and just keeps our pace; there is not a breath; the sea is unruffled; the men lie limp off parade (for parade persists); one begins to recall an ancient mariner and the tricks the sultry main played upon him. And discussions arise, as animated as the heat will allow, as to whether you'd rather fight in the burning Sahara or the frozen trenches of Northern Europe.
A change in the manner of life on a troop-ship has been effected almost as complete as Oliver Twist shows to have taken place in the administration of public charity, or as Charles Reade shows in the conduct of His Majesty's prisons. Trooping in the 'seventies and 'eighties resembled pretty closely transport on an old slaver—in respect of rations, ventilation, dirt, and space for exercise. By comparison this is luxurious. Perhaps the most notable difference is that there is no beer. The traditional regimental issue of one pint per man per diem (and three pints for sergeants) has been abolished. It is chiefly in a kind of Hogarth theory that this is deplorable; most of the romance of beer-drinking is confined to the art of such delineators as Hogarth and Thackeray. But amongst a section of the men the regret is genuine. Especially hard was a beerless Christmas for many who had been accustomed to charge themselves up with goodwill towards men at that season.
There is a dry canteen, the most violent beverage, obtainable at which is Schweppes's Dry, and hot coffee. Besides, it drives an incessant trade in tobacco, groceries, clothing, and chocolate. We are a people whose god is their belly. During canteen hours an endless queue moves up the promenade-deck to either window of the store, and men purchase, at the most prodigal rate, creature comforts they would despise on land. With many of them it is part of the day's routine.
The leisure and associations of Christmas Day here brought home to the bosoms of most men, more clearly than anything had done previously, what they had departed from. There was hilarity spontaneous; there was some forced to exaggeration, probably with the motive of smothering all the feelings raised by the associations of the festival. You may see, in your "mind's eye, Horatio," the troop-decks festooned above the mess-tables, and all beneath softened with coloured sheaths about the electric bulbs. There is strange and wonderful masquerading amongst the diners, and much song. A good deal of the singing is facetiously woven about the defective theme of "No Beer."
But beside, the old home-songs were given, and here and there a Christmas hymn. It was a strangely mingled scene, but not all tomfooling—not by a great deal.
The Chaplain-Colonel celebrated Holy Communion in the officers' mess at 7 and 8 a.m., and afterwards at Divine-Service on deck addressed the men. Chiefly he was concerned with an attempted reconciliation of the War with the teaching of Christianity. The rest of the day went ad lib.
The night is the unsullied property of the men—in a manner of speaking; but in a manner only. The same could not be said of the officers, as a body. The officers, it is true, fare sumptuously every night, and dress elaborately to dine. The ill-starred private, his simple meal long since consumed, perambulates, and looks on at this good feasting from the promenade deck. "Gawd! I'd like them blokes' job. Givin' b——y orders all day, an' feedin' like that—dressin' up, too! 'Struth! Nothin' better t' do!" Now, that is the everlasting cry of the rank-and-file against those in authority. It's in the business house, where the artificer glares after the managing director—"'Olds all the brass, an' never done a day's work in 'is loife!" It's not so common in military as in civil experience. But as the artisan overlooks the brooding of the managing director in the night watches, whilst he sleeps dreamless, filled with bread, so the private tends to forget that when the Major's dinner is over and his cigar well through, he may work like the deuce until midnight, and be up at réveille with the most private of them. The officers are a picturesque group of diners, and they promenade impressively for an hour thereafter; but they have their night cares, which persist long after the rank and file is well hammocked and snoring.
But before any snoring is engaged in there is a couple of hours of yarning and repartee and horse-play and mirth of all orders. The band plays; the name of the band is legion aboard, and often several members of the legion are in action simultaneously, blaring out their brazen hearts in some imperial noise about (say) Britannia and the waves and the way she rules them; and if you're one of the dozen ill, you cast up a prayer that she will see fit, in her own time, to rule them rather more straight.
Hardly a night but there is a concert, from which the downright song—as such—is rigidly excluded, and nothing but burlesque will be listened to.