On one
occasion, midnight the night before, a Friday, found us still busy
with our work. My cot-mate was in difficulties with his rifle--the
cloth of the pull-through stuck in the barrel, and he could not move
it, although he broke a bamboo cane and bent a poker in the attempt.
"It's a case for the armoury," he remarked gloomily. "What a nuisance
that ramrods are done away with! We've been at it since eight o'clock,
and getting along A1. Now that beastly pull-through!"
What an evening's work! On the day following the brigadier-general
was to inspect us, and we had to appear on parade spick and span, with
rifles spotless, and every article of our equipment in good order.
Packs were washed and hung over the rim of the table by our billet
fire, web-belts were cleaned, and every speck of mud and grease
removed. Our packs, when dry, were loaded with overcoat, mess-tin,
housewife, razor, towel, etc., and packed tightly and squarely,
showing no crease at side or bulge at corner. Ground-sheets were
neatly rolled and fastened on top of pack, no overlapping was allowed;
rifles were oiled and polished from muzzle to butt-plate, and swords
rubbed with emery paper until not a single speck of rust remained.
Saturday morning found us trim and tidy on the parade ground. An
outsider would hardly dream that we were the men who had ploughed
through the muddy countryside and sunk to the knees in the furrowed
fields daily since the wet week began. Where was the clay that had
caked brown on our khaki, the rust that spoilt the lustre of our
swords, and the fringes that the wire fences tore on our tunics? All
gone; soap and water, a brush, needle and thread, and a scrap of emery
paper had worked the miracle.
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