My pair of drawers came up to my chin and the shirt barely reached my
diaphragm, but they were clean,--no strangers on them, and so I was
satisfied.
At the expiration of the time allotted we were turned out and finished
our dressing on the grass.
When all of the company had bathed it was a case of march back to
billets. That march was the most uncongenial one imagined, just
cussing and blinding all the way. We were covered with white dust and
felt greasy from sweat. The woolen underwear issued was itching like
the mischief.
After eating our dinner of stew, which had been kept for us,--it was
now four o'clock,--we went into the creek and had another bath.
If "Holy Joe" could have heard our remarks about the Divisional Baths
and army red tape, he would have fainted at our wickedness. But Tommy
is only human after all.
I just mentioned "Holy Joe" or the Chaplain in an irreverent sort of
way but no offense was meant, as there were some very brave men among
them.
There are so many instances of heroic deeds performed under fire in
rescuing the wounded that it would take several books to chronicle
them, but I have to mention one instance performed by a Chaplain,
Captain Hall by name, in the Brigade on our left, because it
particularly appealed to me.
A chaplain is not a fighting man; he is recognized as a non-combatant
and carries no arms. In a charge or trench raid the soldier gets a
feeling of confidence from contact with his rifle, revolver, or bomb
he is carrying. He has something to protect himself with, something
with which he can inflict harm on the enemy,--in other words, he is
able to get his own back.
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