The R.T.O. at —— where we detrained was an expert, the passion of whose life it is apparently to clear the station yard in an impossibly short space of time. He addressed me as follows, the moment I was out of the train.
"You must be unloaded and out of this in two hours. You can sort yourselves in the road afterwards."
I promised to do my utmost, but the prospect of sorting men, horses, vehicles, and harness on a narrow road flanked by deep ditches whilst the rain streamed down out of a sky as black as tar, appealed only vaguely to my optimistic spirit.
The R.T.O., having given minute instructions and made certain that they were in course of being carried out with feverish haste, became communicative.
"You see," he said, "there's been the dickens of a row lately. One unit took four and a half hours to detrain and several have taken more than three. Then 'Brass Hats' get busy and call for reasons in writing, and I have to render a report and everybody gets damned. If you exceed your time I shall have to report you. I don't want to, of course, and I'm sure you don't want me to."
But at this moment I spotted, by the light of an acetylene flare, my prize-fool sergeant (every battery is issued with at least one of these) directing his drivers to place their harness just where it could not fail to be in everybody's way. I turned to the R.T.O.
"My good man," I said, "you can report me to any one you please. I've reached the stage when I don't care what you do." And I made for the offending sergeant. The R.T.O., justly incensed, retired to the warmth of his office.
As a matter of fact things went rather well; the men, heartened by the thought that rest and food were not far distant, worked with a will, and by the time the allotted two hours had elapsed we were not only clear of the yard, but hooked in on the road and nearly ready to start. Moreover, being the first battery of the Brigade to arrive we had had our choice of billets, and knew that we had got a good one. The Child, preceded by a cyclist guide whose knowledge of the country was palpably slight, and followed by the mess cart, had gone off into the darkness to find the way. It was his job to make all arrangements and then come back to meet us. Since it was only drizzling now and not really very cold, the outlook was distinctly brighter.
"Walk—march," I ordered, and we duly started. We progressed without mishap for, roughly, twenty-five yards, when there was a shout from the rear of the column. The sergeant-major took in its ominous purport before I did. He forgot himself—and swore aloud. "G.S. wagon's overturned in the ditch" was what I eventually heard. It was enough to make an angel weep tears of vexation.
A battery is provided by a munificent government with two G.S. wagons. One contains supplies (i.e. food for horse and man), the other contains baggage and stores. To be without either is most unpleasant. I went back to the scene of the disaster. The ditch was deep and more than half full of water. In it, completely overturned and firmly wedged, was the baggage wagon. Behind the wagon, also in the ditch and still mounted upon a floundering steed, was our old farrier, talking very fast to himself in Welsh. We got him out and soothed him—poor old man, he was wet through from the waist downwards—and then looked sadly, reluctantly, at the wagon. Evidently there was no hope of shifting it without unloading, and that would take too long. So three unfortunate gunners and a bombardier were told off to mount guard over it, given some tins of bully beef and a few biscuits and marooned, as it were, till the morning. All this took time. And we were very tired and very hungry.