'Stretcher-bearers': (8) On the Move

Chapter 4

On the Move

At long last we are leaving Epping and travelling north again, eight of us to an ambulance. We started at 9 a.m. It is now 3 p.m. and we have covered about 80 miles, very slow progress.
The atmosphere is none too fresh, since ventilation is poor, smoking is rife, but we are quite relieved to be leaving Epping.
At present a Nap school is in progress and five of our number, including Hibberd and Gage, complete with pipes, are piling up lists of debts and credits. There is a shortage of ready cash, so Hibberd is acting as temporary clerk, working out financial problems on the back of a cigarette packet. The players are using the ambulance floor as a card table and are squatting around in shirt sleeves, unshaven and travel worn.
Of the other occupants James, 41 year-old, is already asleep sitting upright, his head nodding backwards. He will be nearer home up here.
Barker is still awake, gazing at the shifting panorama visible through a chink in the blacked-out window. I join him, glimpsing hedges, gardens, fields, pirouetting away into the distance.
It is already dark when we branch off the main road into a field and prepare to spend the night under canvas. To the accompaniment of the customary swearing by NCOs and prospective NCOs we erect our double ridge tent and scramble to move our bedding into it. Hibberd and I secure places, but Gage has mysteriously disappeared.
It is almost too dark to see anything now and men trip over guy ropes. Suddenly a cook bawls "Grub up!" and a stampede follows to find small packs with their mess tines and eating irons. Because this is to be our first meal since 6 a.m. breakfast, there is an almighty rush to reach the food queue.
The hot meal tastes like stew and rice. Almost anything would have been highly acceptable.
After the meal, with the aid of cigarette lighters in the dark we make up our beds. In the middle of this Gage staggers in. He has lost his bedding, has been caught for picket duty. He asks to borrow my mess tins and I pass them over.
Hibberd and I have a petty argument about bed space. He loses his cap. He finds it again. He disappears. I drop asleep.
About midnight a hand settles on my face. I push it off. Its owner sounds hurt. Yes. It is Hibberd, railing at me, saying something about having to cut up my blasted rations all night. This is too much to grasp. I sit up and my head strikes his boots.. I turn over and go to sleep again.
3 a.m. approx. Awake. A horse is wandering about the field. It is whinnying and darting about. Damn it! I'm not bothering. Sleep.
5 a.m. Too cold to sleep.
6 a.m. Reveille.

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