Marching in July.

Levin Daily Chronicle, 6 November 1917, Page 1

Marching in July.

(By Patrick McGili.;

Somewhere in France, July 19.—Tlic battalion left the trcnches at noon, with the sun above blazing from a cloudless sky. The men were going back to rest far to rear, and despite the day's heat and the long, weary march before them, they were pleased to get out of the trenches. They had been in the front line out beyond Messincs Kidge ,and casualitiea had been heavy. Now they were glad to be away from it all for a time, back to a village they know, and its friendly people. For the first hour of the march the men made their way along a sunken road that was immune from German observation. The soldiers were very happy, full of high spirits and good humour. Jokes were passed, cigarettes amoked, songs sung. The first halt was called. The men fell out on the sido of the road, wiped the sweat and dust from their faccs and having little water to spare, merely moistened their lips with the precious liquid. Full water bottles seldom leave the trenches. One of the men, a vivacious yonug cockney, lit a cigarette and looked at the man near him. '' Mickey, this is goin' to be a ' ell of a march for me," said the cockney, speaking to his neighbour. "It's only fifteen miles," Mickcy exclaimed. "Begorrah, I've niver heard ye trouble about a stej) like that before, Bill.'' "It's my bloomin' 'eel,''said Bill. "It's the same as if I was rubbin' it up and down against emery paper." "I'll carry yor rifle for you," said Mickcy. "I'd go back on my 'ands and knees 'fore I'd let a bloke carry my fings,'' said Bill. "Thanks all the same, Mickey.'' A whistle was blown. The men got to

their foot and marched off again. Despite the distance a battalion travels, cucli soldier is as circumscribed in his area as a spoke in a limber wheel. His space is confined, and a mail on a march is not less limited in freedom than a man in a guardroom. Always the same mates in front ,the same ruddy necks pressed sturdily back, the same brick rod hands swinging across the khaki, the same entrenching tool handles waving backward and forward, the same packs rifles and bayonets, the same otiicers in front, the same cobbles under foot and the same ammunition boots rising and falling. At the second halt Mickey turned to Bill, the cockney. "How arc ye feelin', matey?" he asked. "Knees goin' a bit?'' "I'm orlright," said Bill. "I'll carry yer rifle," said Mickey. "Not while I have feet under me," said Bill. "Thanks all the same, Mickey.'' The third halt was called. The men dropped to earth, their mouths hanging open and rivers of sweat mapped out their courscs on faces white with the dust of the roadway. Even the sun told 011 Mickey, the Irishman, a soldier who had tramped, as he himself expressed it. the whole of black Africa into a causeway; for Mickey had seen service in that continent. Once again ho turned to Bill, the cocknoy. "How are ye feelin' now?" be asked. "How's the heel?'' "Sore as 'ell," said Bill. "I'll carry yer rifle," said Miekej". "Not while there's breath in my body," said Bill. "Thanks all the same, Mickey." The fourth hour was deadly. The men moved wearily, grunting and stumbling, their appointments covered with dust and dirt, their rifles held al all angles. There was no singing now, and no smoking. All faces wore a look of sluggish indifference; the inarch had begun centuries ago, and would never come to an end. Water bottles were empty, and the pumps which the men passed had no water fit for human use. Feet ached, shoulders ocheu. heads ached. Overhead the sun blnzocl pitilessly. Nobody grumbled, however, for grumbling was a waste of energy The men had a job to perform. They had to march to X. and take up billets there at 5 in the afternoon. Well, damn it! the job had to bo done, and the men would do it!

A sergeant stepped out from the front of Bill's platoon, his feet moving ponderously, his back crooked like an old man's He came to a clumsy halt, turned and looked at |his men. "For God's sake hang on to the step! " he shouted. "Hero are the Umpteenth" (a rival regiment) "coming along. Now show them tho stuff that you're made of!" The Umpteenth camc in sight. "Come, boys ,a song!" shouted tlic sergeant of Bill's platoon, and Bill led the singing, and the (men, dry of throat though they were, joined in the song: "Lager beer! Lngcr beer There's a lager beer saloon across the way. Lager beo-ce-eer! Is there any,lager beer to give away? Tho Umpteenth passed by on its way to the trcnches., The battalion newly out relapsed into silence, and Bill, the cockney, became conscious of his painful heel again. "We'll soon bo there now," Mickey said. "I sec the village in front, jus! about a mile away.'' ' "I know them miles,'' said Bill. "I suppose tliey '11 tic the damned village on a string and keep drawin' it away from us now. I never came near a village yet but it seemed to be pulled away the nearer wc came to it. There that bloke," he said, pointing at a weary soldier in front, whose head was hanging forward, " 'e almost 'it 'is own mout' with his knee.'' That's what will happen to yersolf, Bill, if ye don't straighten yersolf," said the Irishman. "I'll carry yer rifle for yer for the rest of the journey." "Not while I'm in tliis battalion," said Bill. "Thanks, all the same, Mickey.'' At 5 o'clock the men reached X. Bill and Mickey found a good billot. Beside the billet was an inn, and the innkeeper's.daughter was a pretty girl. It is said thai love and war go hand in hand, and Bill that night would have agreed with the saving as he drank the wine passed out for him by the innkeeper's daughter.