Читать книгу On the right of the British line - Gilbert Nobbs - Страница 12

Next morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation.

About 7 A.M. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.

I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.

Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.

Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to find a footing on the gang-plank.

The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its burden. There were two gang-planks: one to go down and one to come up.

But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable result being that those going up met those coming down, until they became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.

Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.

Here we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic endeavours to create order from chaos.

In circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available and drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of being popular.

I am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the name seems very appropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for such dilapidated vehicles.

We were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.

Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to carry his equipment on his back; neither would it seem right for Septimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside him. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing away.

We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.

Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coin vigorously on the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his nose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.

Two days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was to proceed up the line that evening.

I was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops departing that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip and avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who suddenly finds himself O.C. train, has the most difficult one of all.

I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and several sheets of printed instructions.

"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there."

"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.

"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your charge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the R.T.O."

"How many men have I charge of?"

"Rather a big crowd going to-night—38 officers and 1,140 other ranks."

"What regiments do they belong to?"

"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment serving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various units, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your hands full to-night.

"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to the station. It's a good five miles from here."

When I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to march off.

I gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder to follow on.

It was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was. Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and trust blindly to my direction. I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we went.

Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.

I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.

"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?" I demanded.

"I think so, sir. I don't know."

"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before."

"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you are not sure of the way?"

"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best."

"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?"

"The adjutant, sir."

"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?"

"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he detailed me to act as your guide."

What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.

I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his desk.

The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.

There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.

There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can spot such men in a moment.

But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.

Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the trenches.

What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him here!"

It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give you the creeps.

How you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down those clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage (if he ever had any) would be at its lowest.

What a delight it would be if we only had him with us when we take over our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and tell him to curl himself up to sleep there.

How sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw December morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with the wet clay of numerous fingers.