"Going to see that no one does go near it," was the answer. "Picket
duty for the rest of the day, we are."
"But Wankin--"
"What?"
The young man explained, and shortly afterwards Wankin went to
headquarters under an armed escort. Three days later I saw his head
sticking out through the guard-room window, and at that time I had not
heard of the London road escapade.
"Here on account of drink?" I asked him.
"You fool," he roared at me. "Do you think I mistook this damned place
for the canteen?"
I like Wankin and most of his mates like him. We feel that when
detention, barrack confinement and English taverns will be things
of yesterday, Wankin will make a good and trustworthy friend in the
trenches.
CHAPTER VI
THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOLDIERING
There are three things in military life which make a great appeal to
me; the rifle's reply to the pull of the trigger-finger, the gossip of
soldiers in the crowded canteen, and the onward movement of a thousand
men in full marching order with arms at the trail. And at no time is
this so impressive as at night when with rifles held in a horizontal
position by the side, the arm hanging easily from the shoulder, we
march at attention in complete silence. Not a word is spoken by anyone
save officers, little is heard but the dull crunch of boots on the
gravel and the rustle of trenching-tool handles as they rub against
trousers or haversack. Seen from a flank at the rear, the moving
battalion, bending round the curve or straining to a hill, looks
like the plesiosaur of the picture shown in the act of dragging its
cumbrous length along.
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