CHAPTER XXI
RESTING
The night breeze sweeps La Bassée Road, the night dews wet the hay,
The boys are coming back again; a straggling crowd are they;
The column lines are broken, there are gaps in the platoon,
They'll not need many billets now for soldiers in Bethune,
For lusty lads, good, hearty lads, who marched away so fine,
Have now got little homes of clay, beside the firing line.
Good luck to them, God-speed to them, the boys who march away,
A-swinging up La Bassée Road each sunny, Summer day.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
"Gorblimey! This ain't arf a blurry march," said Bubb, changing his rifle from one shoulder to the other and straightening himself up. "I'm feelin' my feet, my 'eels are rubbin' against sandpaper."
"We'll soon be there now," said Bowdy Benners. "Another half hour. I remember the place well. We haven't been here for—how long? Almost a year and a half. Then there were some good fellows with us. Old Fitz and Snogger and Flanagan and Captain Thorley and Billy Hurd. Gone west, the poor devils."
"I wish I 'ad gone west," said Bubb, whose head was sinking forward. "This ain't worth living for, this damned march. If I did go west I wouldn't mind; there's a lot of good men waitin' to welcome us there. We'll never drink beer with better blokes again."
"True for you, Bubb," said Bowdy. "Brave boys, the whole lot of them. Here, Spudhole, I'll carry your rifle for you. You look done up."
Bubb straightened himself.
"Thanks, Bowdy, but I'd rather carry me 'ipe myself. Wot would these draft men think if they see me gettin' 'elped along? I'm not a rooky, Bowdy."
"Righto," said Bowdy, with a laugh. "Your independence will be the death of you one day."