DOWN THE LINE."

Hokitika Guardian, 24 August 1918, Page 4

DOWN THE LINE."

(By James Hoclson.)

There is always some gossiploving soul in a company, who a day or two beiore the time for relief is due, will go dodging round the traverses in the front line telling everybody —sometimes with his tongue in his cheek, more often hoping it is (True, but always with a great air of secrecy —that “ We arcgoing down the line for about three months to A .”

The time always runs into months and the place is always A . It is a sort of standing joke, an evergreen companion that enlivens the life. The lads go “down the line” with the same sort of champagne feeling that people who visit the seaside once a )’ear take their holiday. They talk about nothing else for days: every company “ knows ” ; every platoon lias its pet rumour. You are going to Yimy, Ypres, Arras, Mesopotamia, Egypt, Salonica.

Eversector lias its backers, ever}' battlefront its admirers. You are going in omnibuses, in trains; you arc going to the —tli Corps as storm troops; pioneers ; on lines of communication ; guards at G.H.Q. ; fatigues at the base. You pick your tale, or if y r ou don’t like any of them you invent one of your own.

Eventually you are relieved, and it is then that von feel certain — supposing you have had a fairly easy time —that you will be hit going out. It would be “just your luck"” But you don’t get hit, and, wonder of wonders, this time you are met by omnibuses and next day you do go in a train. This is a great time. You rig up your stove on the truck floor among numberless equipments, rifles and feet, and you make endless tea and eat your parcels that were awaiting you. Maybe you get y'our water from the French engine-driver, whose patience is never exhausted, and you have adventures running to and fro —for the train always starts when you are out of the truck. And you may sit and dangle your legs through ciie side and let your eyes dwell on the restful green fields slipping slowly by and begin to wonder if it is true that yesterday you were in trendies. At some wayside place you leave the train and march off with your band of bugles or pipes through the villages and along the sunlit countr).’ roads. And maybe the old lads that are left begin to troll out the favourite marching song of the days that are gone and the newer lads pick it up ; and the old rhythmic phit-phut, and the quick, glancing shadows and the creak and tap of equipment are there, and heigh ho! lile is good and sweet again.