And, of course, since no one is systematic about doing washing, all the dirty clothing and extra socks pile up until Saturday, and then on the half-holiday the scrubbing tables in the rear of the barracks are the most popular playgrounds.
The washing process is interesting. Every one lines up and dips into the same basin of water. Government soap is supplied in quantities, so are the scrubbing brushes. One lays his jeans and undershirt out nice and smooth on a long table, pours a basin of water over them, applies the soap as if it were a holy-stone until the underclothing is covered with a soft yellow scum. And then he spends the rest of the afternoon trying to get the soap off. The more lather a chap makes the better washerman he is, from all appearances.
The rear of the barracks on a Saturday afternoon looks like a string of tenement house backyards, with flapping garments hanging from everything, including the electric light wires, and men in various degrees of attirement stand around waiting for the garments to get dry. Oh, you daren’t leave them and go off on some other mission while the wind does its duty. You simply have to stick and keep a careful eye on everything you own, otherwise:—well it works on the principle that the man who grabs the most is the best-dressed man for the following week, and if you are not there to prove ownership you are liable to find a pocket handkerchief where your undershirt was and the handkerchief isn’t always what it was originally intended to be.
I did manage to get my wash done and gathered up in time to see the last ten minutes of a Gaelic football game over on the parade grounds. But next week I’m going to take the advice of the Sergeant who suggests that I follow the example of Regular Army men and wash each piece as it becomes soiled. I wonder if I am systematic enough for that?
Sunday:
No I didn’t draw a pass. I’ve been around camp the whole bloomin’ day, but there were about fifteen thousand lucky fellows who did draw passes. I saw them going down in groups for every train to the city since four o’clock yesterday afternoon. But Fat and I seem to be a bit unlucky. Poor Fat, he has wanted a pass to get home and see his mother ever since he has been here. But a pass wouldn’t do him much good. He hasn’t any uniform yet. Still waiting for the army tailors to get busy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they shipped him to France with no more Government property than a khaki shirt. We’ve been consoling each other most of the day. Fat’s a good chap and a mighty likeable fellow.
It has been a day of rest, however, for all except Giuseppi, the company’s barber. He has done a tremendous business; shaved every one, from the Captain down.
Giuseppi’s methods are unique and interesting