Easterleigh Hall at War by Margaret Graham Page A

them,’ he told Jack.
    â€˜You start to worry if they’re saying nothing, sir. When they’re grumbling on the first day of the march they’re alive, they’re functioning. When they’re silent, unless it’s the most bloody awful hangover, which this morning was, it means they’re brewing some trouble. Tomorrow though, they’ll be quieter, the blisters will be bursting, their legs will be aching, then maybe we’ll get Corporal Preston here to give us a song.’
    Si, who was marching the other side of Jack, grinned. ‘How much is it worth, Jack?’
    â€˜A clip round the ear, bonny lad.’
    Eddie, their lance corporal, muttered, ‘And I’ll clip the other one just to keep it all balanced.’
    They arrived at the billets, which did not reach the high standard that Lieutenant Barry had clearly expected. He limped off to the officers’ roofless outhouse. ‘Sending us bloody kids, they are,’ Jack cursed.
    â€˜Nothing new in that.’ Simon had hunkered down beside his pack and was rolling them both cigarettes. It was dark when Auberon found them crouched around a fire behind a pigsty, the men having been fed and watered. He squatted down with them, checking that there was no one around. He shone his torch on his map. ‘I thought this might be on the cards. We’re to stay in support, on the flank of the Indian Corps. There’s a big push. We’re to arrive at our destination here, let’s say in couple of days.’ He stabbed at the map. ‘Neuve Chapelle. We’ll be here.’ Another stab. ‘Poor bloody Indians will be taking the brunt. We’ll be fannying about but perhaps won’t be needed. I’ll tell you more as I know it. There’ll be the usual barrage, but perhaps we’ll go out under an artillery creeper when we go over the bags, if we go over.’
    He rolled up the map. They stood. Simon offered him a roll-up. He pulled a face. ‘I’d rather die.’
    Simon and Jack said together, ‘You probably will.’
    Auberon tapped his cigarette case, which was in his breast pocket. ‘Never smoked as much as this before, just like bloody chimneys we are. Dr Nicholls would protest.’
    The next day they marched past wild flowers beginning to bud. Above them the Royal Flying Corps were like gnats on a body as they buzzed forward.
    Jack told Lieutenant Barry, ‘They’ll be doing reconnaissance, finding out what’s what with the Huns. Soon the barrage will start. Be ready, it’ll be worse than any bloody railway station run amok.’ He no longer really noticed the continuous shellfire, rifle fire, sniper fire, hand bombs, though they became more and more obvious the closer they drew to the Front, because it was a home from bloody home, as Mart had said. No one else who’d been there any length of time seemed aware of the noise either.
    The barrage started within two hours, and young Donald Barry marched in a sort of crouch as the screaming shells roared and pounded to break the wire and mangle the Huns’ trenches. Jack bellowed, ‘Stand up, lad. They’ll not hit you. They’re way up high. Well, most of the time.’ He ducked as a shell fell short over to the right of them, throwing debris high into the air, and along with it the smell of cordite.
    By lunch they were breaking stride and walked single file along the road as artillery limbers passed, and ammunition carts, ration carts, ambulances, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. They marched a few hours more before receiving the order to fall out, by which time the artillery was deafening, the smell of explosives was being carried back from the Huns’ trenches, and they were shouting to be heard
    Auberon trotted back, his horse twitchy and sidestepping as he reached Jack, who grabbed the bridle and held the horse steady. ‘Prancer would never have clowned about like this, dammit,’ Auberon