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but,
then, nobody sleeps in a stable from choice so who could blame
them if they became a little subdued ?
"Never mind," they said, "perhaps it could
be worse." On which philosophic note the Platoon proceeded
to make the best of it and set-to to make itself comfortable.
Sentries were posted and then supper was served. Supper
consisted of bottles of beer and bread and cheese. This
raised the spirits of the men a couple of points, but upon
closer acquaintance the beer proved to be but a snare and
a delusion. Looking back, I can only conclude that the bottlers
of that beer were in league with the Director of the Exercise
in an endeavour to make things difficult. It was physically
impossible to drink that beer. There were many pretty exponents
of the art of drinking assembled in that stable, but that
beer had them all beaten into subjection. It had to be literally
sucked from the bottle in the form of cream. This is not
the best way of taking beer, and it wasn't long before the
unpleasant consequences of taking it in this manner began
to manifest themselves. Even the bread and cheese was against
us. Nearly everybody dropped it in the straw, and I would
like to place it on record that the proverbial needle in
the haystack has absolutely nothing on bread and cheese
dropped in a bed of straw. After much futile grubbing amongst
the straw, the Home Guard admitted itself beaten, and retired
hungry and thirsty to take what rest it could.
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There
was a ray of hope, however. Patrols were to be sent out later,
and each man was to be given a bowl of hot soup before setting
out. That, at least, was something to look forward to,
and with that cheery thought we snuggled in our greatcoats
and tried to sleep. I say tried, because it soon became painfully
evident that our endeavours in this direction were doomed
to miserable failure. Sharp points ascended from the floor
and pierced my back and side in a hundred places, and a draught,
of gale strength, whistled down my neck and, becoming trapped
by my gaiters, circled viciously and icily round my legs.
The prospect of a few hours of this appalled me. I had visions
of becoming a lifelong cripple and wondered morbidly what
I should look like in a Chelsea Pensioner's uniform. Of course,
I wasn't quite sure whether or not ex-Home Guards would be
eligible. It wasn't long though before reason asserted itself,
and I came to the conclusion that unless I did something about
it pretty quickly the only thing I should be wearing would
be a shroud. So with a low cunning born of necessity, I concocted
an excuse that I was going to make enquiries about the patrols
and left that chamber of horrors, making a silent vow that
never again would I enter it. I then found my way to the warmth
and comfort of the cookhouse, only to find that the Platoon
Sergeant had installed himself there too. But, after the rigours
of the stable, even this did not deter me. I'd found my haven
and was determined to make the best of it, come what may.
(......continues.....)
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