"My boots are bad, colour," is the answer. "I cannot march in them."
"And are you goin' to march in them drorin'-room abominations?" roared
the sergeant. "Get your boots mended and grease out of it."
At roll-call three of the company were found to be absent; two were
sick, and one who had been found guilty of using bad language to a
N.C.O. was confined to the guard-room. Those who answered their names
were served out with packets of blank ammunition, one packet per man,
and each containing ten cartridges wrapped in brown paper and tied
with a blue string.
The captain read the following instructions: "The enemy is reported
to be in strong force on X hill, and Battalions A and B are ordered
to dislodge him from that position. A will form first line of attack,
B will send up reserves and supports as needed." The rifles were
examined by our young lieutenant, after which inspection the company
joined the battalion, and presently a thousand men with rifles on
shoulder, bayonets and haversacks on left hip, and ammunition in
pouches, were marching through the rain along the muddy streets, out
into the open country.
The day promised to be an interesting one from my point of view; I had
never taken part in a mimic battle before, and the day's work was to
be in many ways similar to operations on the real field of battle.
"Only nobody gets killed, of course," my mate told me. He had taken
part in this kind of work before, and was wise in his superior
knowledge.
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