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I had not counted on getting back to the battalion to be hustled off straightway as if I had been having a nice time while they were fighting. Except for the ‘nice time’, which was my responsibility, this was no inaccurate summary.
O'Toole was there, and Hayler; Gunner Allen was shut in, uncommanding. Of the rest, about a dozen, I knew one or two faces including a Corporal Smith, cheerful and stolid. To my great relief Hauser was added to the party thus giving me company and a second in command.
After a deal of eager but curiously ineffectual bustle we loaded ourselves into two lorries. Our morale was not bad; it was not good. It was replaced by representations of morale remembered from earlier pre-Cambrai models. We jolted to a stop – Arras. Gunner Allen made a rare emergence to speak to me.
“They say this place is honeycombed with passages and tunnels under the whole of Arras. Wouldn't mind staying here for a bit.” He relapsed into silence. From what I had heard from O'Toole it was the communication, not the silence, which was remarkable.
The pause was long enough to let the men get tea. Then Hauser and I clambered onto the seat next to the driver. Orders were to proceed to a point behind the Messines Ridge. The jolt, rattle and roar of the lorry would have made conversation difficult had we wished to talk. For my part I was glad to be left to my own thoughts.
I was more relieved than I would have thought possible to have Hauser as my supporting officer. I had not lost my affection for Quainton, and I had friendly memories of the South African, Stokes. I was dis-illusioned by Quainton and dis-enchanted by the background
from which we came. The rhythmical rise and fall of the cold brilliance of the Very lights pierced the velvety blackness. We were travelling parallel with, about five miles from, the Front Line. What the devil were we up to now? I felt ignorant in detail of my task, of my place in any larger design. We had no rifles; Hauser, O'Toole, Smith and I had