Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western FrontHornung, E. W. (Ernest William)
History
Notes of a Camp-Follower on the Western Front
Hornung, E. W. (Ernest William)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives; World War, 1914-1918 -- War work -- Young Men's Christian Associations
Then a hymn would end, and there would be sometimes as much as a minute
of natural talk and normal thinking. But it was like the lorries full of
fighting-men in the moonlit dust; always a new leader filled the breach;
and the officers of the Rest Hut had long been stolid listeners when we
stopped once more, not to hide, but at some station, and that weary pair
sneaked out into another truck. Here there were but other two before
them: a sardonic Anglican, and a young man enviably asleep under less
covering than would have soothed our thinner blood. Side by side we
cowered upon a packing-case, a Rest Hut blanket about our legs, and
discussed the secular situation over a pipe. Almost the last thing we
two had heard in the town was a whisper about the German cavalry; a
rumour so sensational that we were keeping it to ourselves; but it only
confirmed the mate in his prophetic conviction that the fools were just
cutting their own throats deeper with every mile they advanced. That was
_his_ hymn; not a stage of our flight had he failed to beguile with the
grim refrain; but in the truck I seem to recall a wilder dream of
getting into some dead man's uniform, if the other folly went much
further, and risking a firing-party for one blow at a Boche by fair or
foul. It was perhaps as well that we were going beyond the reach of any
such desperate temptations.
The Rest Camp was on a chilly plateau at the mouth of the Somme: it
might have been the Murrambidgee for all the warfare within reach. A few
faint flashes claimed our wistful attention on a clear night, but I have
heard the guns better here in Sussex. On the other hand, it was a
military camp, laid out on scientific principles that appealed to the
camp-following spirit, and military discipline kept us on our acquired
mettle. I had not slept under canvas for thirty years, and rather
dreaded it, especially as the weather had turned cold and unsettled. A
tent in the rain had perhaps more terrors for many of us than a snug hut
under occasional shell-fire; but few if any were the worse for the
experience. Indeed, the chief drawback was an appetite out of all
proportion to available rations; but, though tempers were at times on
edge, and fists clenched in the bacon queue, on one of our few bacon
mornings, no grumbling disgraced the board. We reminded ourselves and
each other of the lads we had left to bear the brunt, and we started
our humdrum days with vociferous jocosity in the wash-house.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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