Combed Out. F. A. Voigt
mental state of a soldier under fire, so that none of these pictures seemed convincing to me. I wondered whether I would be anxious, nervous, terrified, excited, exuberant, or calm and indifferent in the presence of danger, but I could not arrive at any conclusion. Even the term "under fire" conveyed no precise meaning. Nothing I had read about the present war was of any help to me. The reports of the war-correspondents in the daily press were so full of obviously false psychology, that I regarded them as obstacles in the way of a proper understanding of modern warfare, and no doubt that was partly the object with which they were written or rather inspired. I knew that within a few weeks I might be dead or terribly mutilated, but as I could not visualize the precise circumstances the prospect only filled me with an indefinite uneasiness. The possibilities before me were too vague and too numerous, and I did not possess sufficient knowledge to estimate them accurately. I did not even know whether I would remain in a fighting unit. I hoped we would be sent to the front soon, for the one thing I feared was a prolongation of the dreary round of infantry drill. Moreover I was intensely curious as to the real nature of war and eager to experience new sensations and conditions. Nevertheless, from time to time I felt a wild desire to run away and enjoy a few days of freedom, but the realization of the futility of such a wish always brought on a fit of such black despair that I tried not to think about it at all.
II
THE FATIGUE PARTY
There was much gaiety amongst us. There was also much gloom and bitterness. We would often quarrel violently over nothing and enrage over little inconveniences—intense irritability is the commonest result of army life. Our morale was dominated by the small, immediate event. Bad weather and long working hours would provoke outbursts of grumbling and fretful resentment. A sunny morning and the prospect of a holiday would make us exuberantly cheerful and some of us would even assert that the army was not so bad after all. A slight deficiency in the rations would arouse fierce indignation and mutinous utterances. An extra pot of jam in the tent ration-bag would fill us with the spirit of loyalty and patriotism. If an officer used harsh, brutal words we would loathe him and meditate vengeance. But if an officer spoke to us kindly or did us some slight service we would call him a "brick," a "toff," or a "sport," and overflow with sentimental devotion. It was not difficult to please us, indeed it was often touching to observe for how small a thing the men would show the most ardent gratitude and work enthusiastically so as to show their appreciation. If those with high authority in the army had only realized the tremendous influence just a little kindness and consideration had on the morale of the troops, much hatred and misunderstanding, much useless suffering and humiliation would have been avoided.
Not that the officer was any worse than the common soldier. In fact, he was usually better. Most officers, belonging as they did to the comparatively wealthy and leisured classes, had been able to cultivate luxuries like good-nature, benevolence and politeness all their lives. But mere goodness was not sufficient.
Moreover, the very fact that a man possesses authority separates him from his fellows. How could it be otherwise? What man capable of genuine friendship could bear to exert authority over his comrades with the obligation to inflict punishment on them if he should think it "necessary"? To dominate is worse than to be dominated. The very feeling that a man has power over others gives him an exaggerated notion of his own importance and merits, it arouses latent brutality, it fosters grandiose thinking (that terribly harmful vice of nearly all our statesmen). Indeed, most of the cruelty and injustice in the world are due to the demoralizing influence of authority. And that is why there were some amongst us who would not have accepted promotion whatever material advantages it might have brought.
How could our officers, seeing that they had authority and did not live our lives, understand us and treat us as we ought to have been treated, if they were not men of exceptional imagination, sympathy, and intuition? We never had an officer who was really a bad man. At heart they were all good, kindly men—and yet how often we suffered from their lack of something more than mere goodness!
We were twelve in a tent and going to bed always tried our tempers severely. Some of us would come in with muddy boots and tread on the blankets of the others. Those who went to bed early could stretch out their legs until their feet touched the tent-pole. Those who arrived later would have to wedge themselves in as best they could and remain with knees drawn up for the rest of the night—any attempt at forcing them down would be sure to create a disturbance and lead to a furious dispute and an exchange of insults and obscenities. When we were all in bed, no one could stir without causing inconvenience to his neighbours. A sleepless night, invariably accompanied by the restless impulse to stir and fidget, was unforgettable misery, but fortunately our work was so hard that sleepless nights were very rare.
One morning when it was still dark and the others were snoring loudly I looked at my watch. It was twenty past four. Reveillé would be at half-past five, so I abandoned myself to more than another hour, so I thought, of delicious indolence. I closed my eyes and was beginning to doze and dream again when I heard the flop, flop of heavy feet treading the mud and slush outside. The canvas of the tent was banged violently and a voice, which I recognized as that of the Police Corporal, shouted:
"Reveillé—breakfast at 5 o'clock, parade at 5.30 with haversack rations."
I started up in dismay and shouted:
"It's an hour too early! What's the matter?"
The Corporal answered resentfully:
"Never mind what's the matter—show a leg, and get a move on!"
He passed on to the next tent and repeated his order, and then to the next, and so on, until his voice grew faint in the distance.
I was full of vexation at being deprived of the extra hour of sleep. I could not understand why reveillé should be so early, unless it was my watch that was wrong.
The other men in the tent began to stir. They sat up and groaned and yawned and stretched out their arms, or turned round impatiently and went to sleep again. One of them looked at his wrist-watch:
"Gorblimy, 'tain't 'alf-past four—what the bleed'n' 'ell d'they want to wake us this time of a mornin' for? Some bloody fatigue, I bet yer!"
"Wha', ain't it 'ah'-past five?"
"'Alf-past five be blowed! 'Tain't 'alf-past four!"
"Why can't they let a bloke sleep of a mornin'!—they don't want yer ter be comfortable, that's what it is. I bet yer me bottom dollar the C.O. don't get up at this time!—'e don't get up afore ten or eleven, you bet yer life. 'E 'as eggs an' bacon for 'is bloody breakfast wi' a batman ter wait on 'im an' put plenty o' bloody sugar in 'is bleed'n' tea! All 'e does is ter shout at us an' tell us orf when we comes back from work.
"Gorblimy—when's this bastard life goin' ter end! When I think o' Sunday mornin' at 'ome wi' breakfast in bed an' the News of the World wi' a decent divorce or murder, I feel fit ter cry me eyes out. Bloody slavery, soldierin'! An' what's it all for? Nothin' at all—absolutely nothin'! Why don't the 'eads come an' bloody well fight it out amongst theirselves—why don't King George 'ave a go wi' Kaiser Bill? What d'they want ter drag us out 'ere for ter do their dirty work for 'em? If I was ter 'ave a row wi' another bloke, I'd take me coat orf an' set about 'im me bleed'n' self! I wouldn' go an' arst millions an' millions ter die fur me! I'd fight it out meself, like a man! That's me! That's 'ow I'd do it! Act like a bleed'n' sport, I would—tell yer straight! Gorblimy—draggin' us out 'ere inter this bloody misery—it makes me blood boil. … "
This fulmination was interrupted by shouts of "Shut up" and "'Old yer jaw" and "Put a sock in it" and "Let's get a bit o' sleep," but there was no chance of further sleep. The air was heavy with the rank smell of stale tobacco. Several men lit cigarettes and the ends glowed in the darkness, each one illuminating