Her Privates We by Frederic Manning

Author:Frederic Manning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Profile
Published: 1999-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

XI

Where is this straw, my fellow?

The art of our necessities is strange,

That can make vile things precious.

SHAKESPEARE

SERGEANT-MAJOR CORBET of Headquarter Company was a cheerful, alert, and intelligent man: an excellent signaller himself, he looked on the eight men who had come from the various companies for instruction with a more or less favourable eye. He did not notice signs of a blazing intellect on any of their faces, which he glanced at cursorily; but he had not expected anything different; and he had a lively faith in the things which, under the educative influence of himself and of Corporal Hamley, were yet to come.

‘Corporal Hamley has taken the section out, and it is not worth while sending you after him, as you wouldn’t get there until it would be time to come back. The Signals section is billeted just opposite that estaminet. You can wait there for him. He will tell you where your billets are.’

So they found their way to a yard enclosed by barns and byres, where one of the orderly-runners, who were also billeted there, pointed out that part of the premises allotted to the signallers. Finding a place to themselves, Bourne, Shem, and Martlow sat down in the straw to investigate the contents of Bourne’s parcel. It was a large parcel from some well-known West End stores, securely packed in a box of that thin wood known as three-ply; and Bourne, pulling out his jack-knife from the pocket of his tunic, and slipping from under his shoulder-strap the lanyard by which it was secured, prised the box open with a steel spike probably intended for punching holes in leather, or for removing stones from a horse’s hoof. The first sight of the contents was a little disappointing, as a great deal of room was taken up by a long loaf of bread, called by some a sandwich loaf because it cuts into square slices, and is intended to be made into sandwiches.

‘What do they want to send us out bread for?’ Martlow exclaimed indignantly, as though the parcel had been addressed to them collectively.

A tin of chicken, a small but solid plum cake, a glass of small scarlet strawberry jam, and a tin of a hundred Russian cigarettes.

‘Yes, I wonder why they sent the bread. He’s a sensible chap, but perhaps the bread was his wife’s idea. You know, Martlow, my friend is about fifty-five, but he is a very good sport, and married for love last year.’

‘Well, never mind ’im now,’ said Martlow. ‘I’m feelin’ a bit peckish. Let’s eat the chicken, and then we shan’t ’ave to carry it about.’

‘We can save the cake for tea,’ said Shem. ‘I suppose they only sent the bread to fill up the box, but it will come in useful with the chicken.’

‘Open the chicken, then,’ said Bourne; ‘and cut some bread, Martlow.’

Martlow, however, was too interested in watching Shem opening the tin to turn to the loaf immediately. He waited until he saw the carved fowl, set in pale, quivering jelly.

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