mp and laugh as they called
out--"Got a 'blighty' at last, sir!" We were standing up to our waists
in liquid mud by day, into which we would freeze at night. I have gone
along the trench and kicked and punched my boys into sensibility, and
said: "Is there anything I can do for you, boys? Can't I get you
anything?" "Oh, no sir. We're all right, but don't we envy old Nick
and his imps to-night!" Who is there that is not abashed in the
presence of a spirit like that? And had you been there and these your
men, wouldn't you love them as I do? Never did the spirit of man rise
more glorious to the demand of hard occasion, than when those boys of
Australia laughed and joked in the tortures of hell. Eighty per cent
of them had never known a temperature lower than thirty above zero, and
here was a cold more biting than they had ever dreamed of and they were
without protection, living in a filthy ditch, never dry, their clothing
unable to keep out wet or cold. Back in camp every man had a
complaint, where it is the province of the soldier to grumble. In
those days the orderly officer would go round with his question of "Any
complaints?" "Yes, look here, sir. What do you think of that?" "Why,
dear me, man, it seems very good soup!" "Yes, sir, but it is supposed
to be stew!" Why, if the Australian soldier did not complain, you
might well suspect a mutiny brewing! Too much marmalade, and not
enough plum! etc. I never thought there was as much marmalade in the
world as I myself have consumed on active service! Those days when we
were well off, and did not know it, with dry beds and a clean tent,
with good warm food, and plenty to eat and drink, the boys were always
"kicking" about something or other, but now when things were hellish
bad under conditions when wounds were a luxury and death a release you
never heard a complaint. There were days too when an enemy barrage cut
off our supplies and prevented relief, and we were compelled to live on
dry biscuits and cold water, taking our water from the shell-holes
where the dead were rotting. I remember when I was wounded and being
carried out of the trench my brother officers saying to me: "Oh,
Knyvett, you lucky dog!" And I was lucky, and knew it, though I had
twenty wounds and trench feet. Why, when I arrived at the hospital and
lay in a real bed, with real sheets, and warm blankets, with a roof
over my head that didn't leak, and a fire in the room, with the nurse
n