Edgar Wallace by Himself by Edgar Wallace — Read

Who will ever forget those days of marching and counter--marching through the driving rain in search of a shadowy enemy, his presence notified occasionally by a desultory exchange of rifle shots; turning out at dawn in the drizzle, with a streak of light between the tops of the hills and the heavy rain-clouds. The stink of wet wood trying to burn; the undertone of blasphemy that chorused up from the men's lines; and the ride into nowhere--a wet man on a wet horse, the rain streaking down, drops dripping from the brim of your broad-brimmed sombrero; the clatter and groan of the mules lugging their burdens over a road that had ceased to be a road, probably never was a road. The everlasting foot-slogging Tommy, his rifle slung over his shoulder, muzzle down, his hands deep in his pockets, a pipe between his teeth. Alone in that column of misery is he cheerful. His voice rises in an unmusical howl as he murders the music of popular songs. Dead mules and dead horses at the side of the road; a swollen drift to cross; and so into camp, weary and aching. And what a camp! Waterproof covers fastened together to shelter the men; tiny tents, hardly as serviceable for the officers; but in ten minutes after camp is reached Mr. Atkins is as cheerful as ever he was. Fires are burning, for each Tommy in a company carries a dry stick of communal wood under his tunic. Sometimes when we were crossing the path of a little column that had trekked laterally before, we came upon evidence of tiny battles, forgotten nowadays.

Once, when was taking a short cut, I found all that remained of a British soldier, and halted to bury him. It is a commentary on our civilisation that I had to borrow the prayer-book from my coloured mule-driver before I could read the service over the pitiable dead.