“The majority of the men who used to attend these services would probably shock the ordinary church-goer.  These chaps would occasionally swear, at times they certainly got too ‘merry.’  But this did not make them any the less good fellows.  Unless one has actually been at the front, it’s no good arguing with him or trying to make him understand the front’s point of view.  What man who has not been through it can even dimly imagine the after-effect of continuous bombardment and heavy shelling?  This I do want to say:  the whole time these men were at the services they were far more reverent than many I have seen in churches in England.  On leaving they would probably speak of the Chaplain as a damn, or even more expressive, fine chap; half an hour after the service one might find them playing cards, later on taking rather more than was good for them at the cafe, and yet there was absolutely no doubt as to their earnestness and sincerity or their attitude towards religion.  On the whole they were a far cleaner-living lot of men than those one unfortunately sometimes finds in a place of worship in England.

     “They were real good sorts.  They would never go back on a
     pal.”

One Young Man on Trek

CHAPTER IX

ONE YOUNG MAN ON TREK

It was on August Bank Holiday Monday that Sydney Baxter’s battalion made its long journey south.  He writes: 

“We were up at 2 o’clock that morning, and for two solid hours were loading up the trucks with our transport, G.S. waggons and limbers.  It was real sport and we thoroughly enjoyed it.  A long row of flat trucks was lined up, and as each limber drew up the horses were unharnessed and we ran the limber right along the whole line of trucks until all were filled.  The work completed, we detailed for our trucks.  Every trenchman knows those trucks neatly ticketed: 

               40 Hommes.
                8 Chevaux.

Forty of us packed into a van did not permit even sitting down, and we were very tired after our exertions, but the change of surroundings and the knowledge that we were for a time far away from the reach and sound of shells was sufficient to keep us merry and bright.  The journey was very slow, and when we reached Calais it was just twelve hours since we had had a breakfast cup of tea.  A few of us decided to run up to the engine and get some hot water and make some tea on our own, but the majority hadn’t got any tea tablets or cocoa, and we hadn’t enough to go round at a sip each.  The cookers were tightly packed on a truck at the rear, and there was no hope from that quarter.  And then once again, just as on other occasions where a chance of a hot mug of tea seemed hopeless, and where we were apparently doomed to a comfortless time, the Y.M. was at hand.  There, as we glided