One morning when it was still dark and the others were snoring loudly I looked at my watch.  It was twenty past four.  Reveille would be at half-past five, so I abandoned myself to more than another hour, so I thought, of delicious indolence.  I closed my eyes and was beginning to doze and dream again when I heard the flop, flop of heavy feet treading the mud and slush outside.  The canvas of the tent was banged violently and a voice, which I recognized as that of the Police Corporal, shouted: 

“Reveille—­breakfast at 5 o’clock, parade at 5.30 with haversack rations.”

I started up in dismay and shouted: 

“It’s an hour too early!  What’s the matter?”

The Corporal answered resentfully: 

“Never mind what’s the matter—­show a leg, and get a move on!”

He passed on to the next tent and repeated his order, and then to the next, and so on, until his voice grew faint in the distance.

I was full of vexation at being deprived of the extra hour of sleep.  I could not understand why reveille should be so early, unless it was my watch that was wrong.

The other men in the tent began to stir.  They sat up and groaned and yawned and stretched out their arms, or turned round impatiently and went to sleep again.  One of them looked at his wrist-watch: 

“Gorblimy, ’tain’t ‘alf-past four—­what the bleed’n’ ’ell d’they want to wake us this time of a mornin’ for?  Some bloody fatigue, I bet yer!”

“Wha’, ain’t it ’ah’-past five?”

“’Alf-past five be blowed!  ’Tain’t ’alf-past four!”

“Why can’t they let a bloke sleep of a mornin’!—­they don’t want yer ter be comfortable, that’s what it is.  I bet yer me bottom dollar the C.O. don’t get up at this time!—­’e don’t get up afore ten or eleven, you bet yer life.  ’E ‘as eggs an’ bacon for ‘is bloody breakfast wi’ a batman ter wait on ‘im an’ put plenty o’ bloody sugar in ‘is bleed’n’ tea!  All ‘e does is ter shout at us an’ tell us orf when we comes back from work.

“Gorblimy—­when’s this bastard life goin’ ter end!  When I think o’ Sunday mornin’ at ‘ome wi’ breakfast in bed an’ the News of the World wi’ a decent divorce or murder, I feel fit ter cry me eyes out.  Bloody slavery, soldierin’!  An’ what’s it all for?  Nothin’ at all—­absolutely nothin’!  Why don’t the ‘eads come an’ bloody well fight it out amongst theirselves—­why don’t King George ‘ave a go wi’ Kaiser Bill?  What d’they want ter drag us out ’ere for ter do their dirty work for ’em?  If I was ter ‘ave a row wi’ another bloke, I’d take me coat orf an’ set about ‘im me bleed’n’ self!  I wouldn’ go an’ arst millions an’ millions ter die fur me!  I’d fight it out meself, like a man!  That’s me!  That’s ‘ow I’d do it!  Act like a bleed’n’ sport, I would—­tell yer straight!  Gorblimy—­draggin’ us out ’ere inter this bloody misery—­it makes me blood boil....”