Combed Out. F. A. Voigt
Someone lit a candle and the bright flame dazzled us at first. Another man got up and threw immense black shadows. The recesses of the tent were full of murky gloom.
"Have a look what the weather's like!"
I raised the flap and peered into the outer darkness. A cold gust of wind blew in carrying several snowflakes with it.
"It's snowing!"
"Jesus Christ, another day o' misery afore us—when will this life end!"
I began to dress. I picked up my towel and soap and loosened the flap once again. I felt I had to go out and wash, for I had not washed at all on the previous day, fearing the dirty, freezing water and the piercing wind. I longed to remain in the warm tent, and for a moment I wavered. Then, with an effort of the will I suppressed the strong temptation, and squeezing through the tent-opening, I stepped out into the oozy mud. The black night seemed to weigh heavily on the world. Only here and there dull glimmering blurs showed that candles were burning in the other tents.
An icy wind was blowing round me. I was in my shirt sleeves and regretted not having thrown my great-coat over my shoulders. The cold made me contract my muscles and draw my breath in sharply between my teeth. I felt the snowflakes beat gently against my face. I folded my arms across my chest and found a little protection from the gusts that seemed to pierce me. My left foot had sunk deeply into the slush. I pawed the mud with my right in order to find the duckboard. I touched the edge and stepped firmly upon it. With an effort I dragged the other foot from the slush. It came out with a loud, sucking squelch, but I felt it was leaving my boot behind. I let it sink back again and then freed it with a twist of the ankle.
I could not see the duckboard in the dense gloom. I walked along it carefully, feeling the edge from time to time. I heard a rapid step behind me—another man was going to wash; he must have grown accustomed to the darkness, for he walked along without hesitation. He slowed down as he approached me. I tried to go faster, but trod on the extreme edge of the boards. I had to stop for a moment and the man behind me became impatient and shouted:
"Get a bloody move on, for Christ's sake. It's too cold to wait out here in this weather."
I stood aside to let him pass. He brushed roughly by, nearly pushing me over. I uttered a curse and stepped back with one foot—it sank deeply into the mud. I bent sharply forward to draw it out again, there was the beginning of a squelch and then it suddenly slid out of the boot. I ground my teeth and took a box from my pocket and struck a match, although my numb fingers could hardly hold it. There was a splutter and for a moment I saw a whirl of white snowflakes, a patch of glistening mud, and a deep, funnel-shaped hole with my boot at the bottom of it. The match went out, but I judged the direction accurately and pulled my boot out of the ooze. I forced my frozen foot into it and plodded on through the darkness.
The duckboards came to an end although the ablution benches were another seventy or eighty yards away. Our Commanding Officer was a keen sportsman and he had stopped the laying of duckboards so that all energy could be devoted to the construction of a boxing-ring.
My feet were so cold that the pain was almost unbearable. I was strongly tempted to turn back, but having got so far, I resolved to go on. My teeth began to chatter. The man who had passed by me had already reached the ablution shed and I could see a faint gleam from his candle in the distance, so that I did not fear to lose my way.
I reached the shed and saw him standing with bared chest and shoulders, gasping and shivering. I picked up a zinc basin and once more stepped into the outer gloom. The well was only a few yards off—I could just distinguish its black mouth. I placed my basin on the edge. I grasped the cold, wet rope and lowered the bucket into the depth. I drew it up again and emptied it into my basin—the bits of ice floating in the water knocked sharply against the zinc.
I carried the basin back and placed it on the bench. My fingers were so cold that it nearly slipped from them. I plunged my hands into the water and quickly splashed face, chest and shoulders. The water was a dirty grey colour and full of sand and grit. I rubbed myself with my towel and began to glow. I emptied the basin and left the shed, glad to think that this one unpleasant duty had been performed. My face was burning.
It was still snowing and the wind was blowing hard. I trudged through the mud and soon felt frozen through and through again. Several dark figures went by on their way to the shed. I could now just distinguish the duckboards and I quickly reached my tent. I lifted the flap and stepped in. Some of the mud, with which my boots were smothered up to the tops, splashed on to the blankets belonging to a man who lay near the entrance. He growled incoherently at me. Most of the other men were up.
I finished dressing and put on my great-coat. I picked up my tin plate and mug and went out into the darkness once again. I was afraid I might have to stand in a long queue outside the cook-house, but fortunately only a few men were waiting before me. I joined them and we marked time at the double in a vain attempt at stilling the intolerable pain in our frozen feet.
About ten minutes passed and then the front of the cook-house was thrown open. A light appeared and a voice shouted: "Breakfast up!" We raised a feeble cheer and filed past while one of the cooks poured tea into our mugs and placed a fragile wisp of bacon on to each plate.
I balanced my mug in one hand, fearing to spill the tea, and the plate in the other, fearing that the wind might blow away the thin bacon fragment. The snow fell into the mug and dissolved in the rapidly cooling tea. It settled on the bacon which had grown quite cold.
I stepped into my tent and sat down on my—— I cut off a piece from the previous day's bread ration—it had been nibbled by mice overnight and was soiled and dusty. Other men arrived, one by one. We ate our meal in silence. It was usually so—either the conversation was violent and rowdy or nothing was said at all.
We wiped our plates on an old sock or a rag or a piece of newspaper and packed them into our haversacks together with our mugs and rations for the day—a chunk of bread and a dirty piece of cheese. I tied up my boots—the laces were covered with liquid clay—and put on my puttees which were hard and stiff with caked mud. It was a quarter-past five and I lay down at full length, glad to have a few minutes to myself. But the pain in my feet became intolerable—I jumped up and stamped the floor of the tent, grinding my teeth with mortification.
Several of the men had not come in yet with their breakfasts. We could tell by the banging of mess-tins, mugs and plates, and by the angry shouts of "Get a move on," that a long queue was still waiting in front of the cook-house.
Suddenly the tent-flap bulged inwards and two hands, the one holding a full mug and the other a plate, forced their way through. They were followed by a head and shoulders. Thereupon the man tried to step in, but he tripped over the brailing underneath the flap, and plunged forward, spilling the greater part of his tea. He uttered a savage, snarling oath, walked over to his place and sat down, growling and cursing under his breath.
Another man followed. As he pushed his way through the entrance the shoulder-strap of his tunic caught one of the hooks on the flap and his progress was sharply arrested. He held out his mug and plate helplessly, but no one moved to assist him.
"Take these bloody things orf me, can't yer!" he shouted with furious resentment. Someone jumped up and took the mug and plate, while the newcomer freed himself from the hook.
It was five-and-twenty past five when the last of us came in with his breakfast. But before he could reach his place there was a loud blast of a whistle, and a distant voice shouted, "On Parade!"
The irritation that had been accumulating since reveillé burst out.
"Why can't they let yer finish yer breakfast—'tain't 'alf-past yet, not be a long way!"
"They treat yer like pigs!"
"We're a bloody lot o' fools ter stand it—that's the worst o' this mob though, yer'll never get 'em ter stick together an' do anythink."
"I bet the C.O.'s enjoyin' 'isself. … " A stream of filthy language followed—abuse of the Commanding Officer, abuse of the army, abuse of the war, and abuse of the Government.