After being out from the early morning doing different duties, we arrived at camp at 5 p.m., our daily task over. Boarding the ferry to cross the parade ground, we arrived at our prospective tents, gratified to find them still in the same place in which we left them, the only catastrophe that had occurred being that a few kit bags had floated down to the next camp.
With appetites like that of the proverbial hunter we proceeded to the cook-house, or, at least, the place where it was. The cook was still there however, wearing a 40 ton glance and strafing Kaiser Bill and everybody else; but after he had exhausted his supply of hymns of hate, he offered his apologies for not having the poultry cooked, as the rain had put the fires out.
He then presented every man with a lovely piece of beef ( in a nice little square tin), along with a mysterious mixture flavoured with onions, which he called tea. More strafing, this time by us. However, we were informed that if we did not care for it, “we could wait until tomorrow” and have some dinner, providing the deluge had ceased and the fire been persuaded to resume duties.
With this consolation we departed to discuss cooks and their abilities. On returning, we found our tent had taken quite a drunken pose, owing to the pegs refusing to stay in the ground, and when we had attended to this detail we settled down to discuss various subjects. Someone suggested a song under the circumstances, entitled “Shy did I join the Army?” He was quietened with the tent mallet.
Another shouted he wished he had joined the Navy, as sailors had hammocks to sleep in. But what is better to be in than nice soft mud? As a rule, it is only wealthy people that can indulge in water beds. They say every cloud has a silver lining, and I believe it, too, as just as we were in the midst of our despondency the corporal announced that rum would be issued to all who had no conscientious objections.
The majority of the occupants of the tent proceeded to put on their bathing costumes to go out and get it. After the medicine, which is by the way, far in front of the regulation No. 9, someone had the cheek to say that he wished it rained every day, and after we were “all in” our little grey homes in the mud, we proceeded to lay down our beds. Someone burst forth into song with “I am longing for my dear old home again.” It is surprising what an effect this little drop of medicine has on a man’s vocal organ.
Just as we had lit up our last pipes and settled down for the night, the poor chap next to the door was disturbed by an intruder stepping in and transferring a nice bit of mud from outside into his left ear, with the remark: “I am sorry, mate; it is the wrong tent.” He was followed out by a boot, and a few extra names that are not on his birth certificate. After that until that familiar sound, “Lights out,” was heard, everything went fairly smoothly, with the exception of a few raindrops coming through ventilators that were not put there by the maker.
We then turned over to slumber, and dream of the happy time to come when we say farewell to Saloncia.
MY MORNING’S HUNT.
I turned my shirt first inside out,
And then the fun begun,
The fleas were there in thousands
At battle ten to one.
Some were there in sections,
Some were there in blue,
Some were there in khaki,
Black and yellow, too.
Some had quite six badges up.
Old soldiers they, I’m sure;
And when I went to grab at them,
They jumped off to the floor.
You can pick them out in batches,
You can burn them out with matches;
You can kill them by the score,
You can scratch yourself to pieces,
But you’ll find your stock increases;
Yes, you’ll find there’s always more.
The camp lies on the brow of the hill, and below, bathed in the sunshine, embraced by the sea, thou dreamest, Salonica. We, strangers, who have come here, modern crusaders fighting for the right, crowd the hills around thee and guard thee.
Daily mighty irons ships cleave the waters of thy beautiful harbour, and breathe there for a space of time. From out of their mighty sides are born men, and always more men, clad not in armour as of old, but in simple cloth. When men set forth to right a great wrong, clad in raiment so fragile, surely their hearts must be of the stoutest fibre; and who shall deny them that? Many of them bring friends with them, not for wordy comfort, for they are dumb, and speak their curious language at feed-time only, but perhaps are better friends for all that.
All day and all night long, too, these strangers crowd they streets, Salonica, and leave thee behind them on their errand of mercy. Thou art the harbour of right, Salonica thou art the open gate to deliverance through which the crusaders who forge modern history tread with confidence born of a good cause.
The eyes of the world are upon thee, Salonica! Thy name is writ thousand fold by loving fingers on papers thousands of miles away. Thou are the clearing house of tender thoughts from tender hearts, Salonica.
SARONITE AT SALONICA.
(To be continued).
