Pickets and Special Leave

One of the first things we had to learn
was that our ancient cathedral town has its bounds and limits for the
legions of the lads in khaki. Beyond a
certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare
not venture alone without written permission,
and we can only pass the limit in a
body when led by a commissioned officer.

The whole world, with the exception of
the space enclosed by this narrow circle, is
closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot
now visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart
must come and visit him. The housemaid
from Hammersmith and the typist from
Tottenham have to come to their beaux in
billets, and as most of the men in our town
are single, and nearly all have sweethearts,
it is estimated that five or six thousand
maidens blush to hear the old, old story
within the two-mile limit every week-end.

[pg 37]

Once only every month is a soldier allowed
week-end leave, and then he has permission
to be absent from his billet between the
hours of 3 p.m. on Saturday and 10 p.m.
on Sunday. His pass states that during this
time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion.
Some men use one pass for quite a
long period, and alter the dates to suit every occasion.

One Sunday, when returning from week-end
leave, I travelled from London by train.
My compartment was crowded with men of
my division, and only one-half of these had
true passes; one, who was an adept calligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a
counterfeit signature of the superior who
should have signed the form of leave.
Another had altered the dates of an early
pass so cleverly that it was difficult to
detect the erasure, and a number of men
had no passes whatsoever. These boasted
of having travelled to London every week-end,
and they had never been caught napping.

Passes were generally inspected at the
station preceding the one to which we were
bound. My travelling companions were well
aware of this, and made preparations to
[pg 38]
combat the difficulty in front; two crawled
under the seats, and two more went up
on the racks, where they lay quiet as mice,
stretched out at full length and covered
over with several khaki overcoats. One
man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deign
to roost or crawl, took up his position as
far away as possible from the platform window.

“Grease the paper along as quick as
you know ‘ow and keep the picket jorin’
till I’m safe,” he remarked as the train
stopped and a figure in khaki fumbled with the door handle.

“Would you mind me lookin’ at passes,
mateys?” demanded the picket, entering
the compartment. The man by the door
produced his pass, the one he had written
and signed himself; and when it passed
inspection he slyly slipped it behind the
back of the man next him, and in the space
of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the
forged permit of leave to show to the inspector.
The men under the seat and on the racks were not detected.

Every station in our town and its vicinity
has a cordon of pickets, the Sunday farewell
[pg 39]
kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed
by the platform porter, as the lovers in
khaki are never allowed to see their loves
off by train, and week-end adieux always
take place at the station entrance. Some
time ago the pickets allowed the men to
see their sweethearts off, but as many youths
abused the privilege and took train to London
when they got on the platform, these
kind actions have now become merely a pleasing memory.

Pickets seem to crop up everywhere;
on one bus ride to London, a journey of
twenty miles, I have been asked to show
my pass three times, and on a return journey by train I have had to produce the
written permit on five occasions. But some
units of our divisions soar above these petty
inconveniences, as do two brothers who
motor home every Sunday when church parade comes to an end.

When these two leave church after divine
service, a car waits them at the nearest
street corner, and they slip into it, don
trilby hats and civilian overcoats, and sweep
outside the restricted area at a haste that
causes the slow-witted country policeman
[pg 40]
to puzzle over the speed of the car and
forget its number while groping for his pocket-book.

It has always been a pleasure to me to
follow for hours the winding country roads
looking out for fresh scenes and new adventures.
The life of the roadside dwellers,
the folk who live in little stone houses and
show two flower-pots and a birdcage in
their windows, has a strange fascination
for me. When I took up my abode here
and got my first free Sunday afternoon,
I shook military discipline aside for a moment and set out on one of my rambles.

There comes a moment on a journey when
something sweet, something irresistible and
charming as wine raised to thirsty lips,
wells up in the traveller’s being. I have
never striven to analyse this feeling or
study the moment when it comes, and
that feeling has been often mine. Now I
know the moment it floods the soul of
the traveller. It is at the end of the second
mile, when the limbs warm to their work
and the lungs fill with the fresh country air. At such a moment, when a man
naturally forgets restraint to which he has
[pg 41]
only been accustomed for a short while,
I met the picket for the first time. He
told me to turn—and I went back. But
it was not in my heart to like that picket,
and I shall never like him while he stands
there, sentry of the two-mile limit; an
ogre denying me entrance into the wide world that lies beyond.

There is one thing, however, before which
the picket is impotent—a pass. It is like
a free pardon to a convict; it opens to him
the whole world—that is for the period
it covers. The two most difficult things
in military life are to obtain permit of absence
from billets, and the struggle against
the natural impulse to overstay the limit
of leave. There are times when soldiers
experience an intense longing to see their
own homes, firesides, and friends, and in
moments like these it takes a stiff fight
to overcome the desire to go away, if only
for a little while, to their native haunts.
Only once in five weeks may a man obtain
a week-end pass—if he is lucky. To the
soldier, luck is merely another word for skill.

With us, the rifleman who scores six successive “bulls” at six hundred yards on
[pg 42]
the open range has been lucky; if he speaks
nicely to the quartermaster and obtains
the best pair of boots in the stores, he has
been lucky; if by mistake he is given double
rations by the fatigue party he is lucky;
but if the same man, sweating over his
rifle in a carnival of “wash-outs,” or, weary
of blistered feet and empty stomach, asks
for sympathy because his rifle was sighted
too low or because he lost his dinner while
waiting on boot-parade, we explain that
his woes are due to a caper of chance—that he has been unlucky. To obtain a
pass at any time a man must be lucky;
obtaining one when he desires it most is a
thing heard of now and again, and getting
a pass and not being able to use it is of
common occurrence. Now, when I applied
for special leave I was more than a little lucky.

It was necessary that I should attend
to business in London, and I set about
making application for a permit of leave.
I intended to apply for a pass dating from
6 p.m. of a Friday evening to 10 p.m. of the
following Sunday. On Wednesday morning
I spoke to a corporal of my company.

[pg 43]

“If you want leave, see the platoon
sergeant,” he told me. The platoon sergeant, who was in a bad temper, spoke
harshly when I approached him. “No business of mine!” he said; “the company
clerk will look into the matter.”

But I had no success with the company
clerk; the leave which I desired was a
special one, and that did not come under
his jurisdiction. “The orderly sergeant
knows more about this business than I do. Go to him about it,” he said.

By Wednesday evening I spoke to the
orderly sergeant, who looked puzzled for
a moment. “Come with me to the lieutenant,” he said. “He’ll know more about
this matter than I do, and he’ll see into
it. But it will be difficult to get special
leave, you know; they don’t like to give it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” he repeated; “what the devil
does it matter to you? You’re paid here
to do what you’re told, not to ask questions.”

The lieutenant was courteous and civil.
“I can’t do anything in the matter,” he
said. “The orderly sergeant will take you
[pg 44]
to the company officer, Captain ——, and he’ll maybe do something for you.”

“If you’re lucky,” said the sergeant in
a low whisper. About eight o’clock in the
evening I paraded in the long, dimly-lighted
passage that leads to our company orderly-room,
and there I had to wait two hours
while the captain was conducting affairs
of some kind or another inside. When the door was opened I was ordered inside.

“Quick march! Left turn! Halt!”
ordered the sergeant as I crossed the threshold,
and presently I found myself face
to face with our company commander, who
was sitting by a desk with a pile of papers before him.

“What is it?” he asked, fixing a pair
of stern eyes on me, and I explained my
business with all possible despatch.

“Of course you understand that everything
is now subservient to your military
duties; they take premier place in your
new life,” said the officer. “But I’ll see
what I can do. By myself I am of little
help. However, you can write out a pass
telling the length of time you require off
[pg 45]
duty, and I’ll lay it before the proper authorities.”

I wrote out the “special pass,” which ran as follows:

“Rifleman —— has permission to be
absent from his quarters from 6 p.m. (date)
to 10 p.m. (date), for the purpose of proceeding to London.”

I came in from a long march on Thursday
evening to find the pass signed, stamped,
and ready. On the following night I could
go to London, and I spent the evening
‘phoning, wiring, and writing to town, arranging
matters for the day ahead. Also,
I asked some friends to have dinner with
me at seven o’clock on Friday night.

Next day we had divisional exercise,
which is usually a lengthy affair. In the
morning I approached the officer and asked
if I might be allowed off parade, seeing
I had to set out for London at six o’clock in the evening.

“Oh! we shall be back early,” I was
told, “back about three or thereabouts.”

The day was very interesting; the whole
division, thousands of men, numberless
horses, a regiment of artillery, and all
[pg 46]
baggage and munition for military use took
up position in battle formation. In front
lay an imaginary army, and we had to
cross a river to come into contact with it.
Engineers, under cover of the artillery,
built pontoon bridges for our crossing; on
the whole an intensely interesting and novel
experience. So interesting indeed that I
lost all count of time, and only came to
consciousness of the clock and remembrance
of friends making ready for dinner when
some one remarked that the hour of four
had passed, and that we were still five miles from home.

I got to my billet at six; there I flung
off my pack, threw down my rifle, and in
frenzied haste consulted a railway timetable. A slow train was due to leave our
town at five minutes to seven. I arranged
my papers, made a brief review of matters
which would come before me later, and
with muddy boots and heavy heart I arrived
at the station at seven minutes to seven
and took the slow train for London.

When I told the story of my adventures
at dinner a soldier friend remarked: “You’ve
been more than a little lucky in getting
[pg 47]
away at all. I was very unlucky when I applied—”

But his story was a long one, and I have forgotten it.

[pg 48]