A WAR EXPERIENCE

Hokitika Guardian, 14 January 1930, Page 8

A WAR EXPERIENCE

HOW SOLDIERS GO TO BED I HAVE DONE THE SAME MANY A TIME BUT THIS.

(By JAMES HODSON.)

“Going to bed” is, of course, a highly imaginative description of what happens. The nearest I ever approached to the real thing was a matress on the floor with rather doubtful blankets and sheets—for three nights only. But the human frame is an accommodating structure, and a knobbly floor or a plain-boarded one is soft enough when one is tired enough. I can say with all gravity that my life’s best sleeps have been enjoyed on boarded floors in France. We have all heard, I suppose, of the soldier on leave who can’t go to sleep in his bed (broad smiles from the lads), but it is certain that there is nothing to compare with the first few nights in billets among the straw when you can wake up—and go to sleep again; when night is one long blessedness, and when, even asleep, one seems to savour the joy and luxury of it.

In summer you may be able to divest yourself of your trousers. On the other hand, you may not, most likely won’t. Down goes the ground sheet; pack covered with a ivoollen scarf, is comfortably arranged for pillow, boots and puttees are off, tunic off, blanket ovey you, and great-coat too if necessary, and— ’tis done/ You sleep. You probably wear your cap comforter for protection from draughts, and you may possibly keep your bayonet handy in case rats are frolicsome.

In winter it is a more serious business. Boots off, puttees wound round feet, feet and legs thrust into the the arms of your greatcoat, skirt of great'coat drawn up to waist and fastened with a belt, tunic maybe on, and and two blankets over you, scarf round neck and ears (like a man with toothache.) But you are not always in billets. In trenches you have no blankets, so you do your best with greatcoat and groundsheet. If you occupy a dug-out in reserve you may please yourself whether you wear your greatcoat or spread it over you. Fashions change. Some dug-outs require groundsheets under you; others are dry enough to allow of it over you. Sandbags are godsends. A few underneath and one on each leg work wonders. In the front line your bed is likely to be the firestep. You just curl up or stretch out, dependent on space and the weather. You sleep sitting, crouching, or lying. I have occupied shelters where in one case I reposed on a rum jar; in another a petrol tin ; and in yet another I slept sitting bolt upright on the firestep. I once lay head and shoulders in a “cubby-hole,” my feet trailing across the bottom of the trench. Each passer-by trod on me—but I slept in the intervals.