The business of drying clothes, and cleaning up, instantly began. Ingrained soldierly cleanliness of the men was displayed. Without any order, and in spite of their weariness, whenever they were halted over an hour in the daylight—which had very seldom happened—they would immediately set about shaving, and cleaning themselves and their rifles. They shaved with the cold water, poured from their water-bottles into the lids of their canteens. There was a vast rubbing of bolts, and "pulling through" of barrels. An erstwhile barber in the Senior Subaltern's Platoon did tremendous business with a pair of scissors and a comb, his patrons being seated on an upturned ammunition-case.
They had not halted long before a "mail" came in. The Subaltern was not among the lucky few who received letters or small parcels. Not that he minded much. From whomever the letter might come, or in whatever vein it had been written, he admitted to himself that he would feel savage with it, and would have dismissed it as "hot air" if it were sympathetic, or as "hard-hearted" if it were anything else.
He wrote home on the now famous postcards that inform the addressee that, on such and such a date, the sender was alive and well. He felt very relieved that at last he had an opportunity to relieve the anxiety of the people at home.
The best part of the two hours was spent in "franking"—that is censoring—his men's letters. It was a very unwelcome task, and although he thoroughly appreciated the military necessity, he cordially hated being forced, as it were, to pry into their private affairs.
Meanwhile the wind had dried them, and the sun was high in the heavens. Rations arrived, and were distributed. The sun and the tea warmed them, and in the afternoon a little sleep was possible.
The Subaltern was aroused at about four o'clock, and the march was continued. The Senior Subaltern had received a box of Abdullas in the post, which he kindly shared with his two juniors. The cigarettes seemed enormously fat, and the tobacco extraordinarily pale. They had smoked nothing but the little "Caporal" French cigarettes—and not many of them—since their own supply had given out. They had said all along how much they longed for "decent English" cigarettes, and now they had got them they were not at all so sure that they liked them.
There was a Lance-Corporal in the Company who was not as generous to his fellows as the Senior Subaltern had been. He smoked the cigarettes he had been sent, persistently, and with obvious enjoyment. The men around him were hungry for a "whiff"; the sight of him calmly lighting a fresh "fag" at the stump of the old maddened them beyond endurance. At length one man could bear it no longer.
"Look at 'im, a'eatin' of 'em. Lor! give a thought to yer ruddy comrades, can't yer?"
They seemed to miss tobacco more poignantly than any other luxury.
A little later, sounds of great artillery bombardments rose up in front of them and on each side, but they could not yet see any signs of a fight, as they had not yet reached the edge of the plateau.