And We Go On by Will R. Bird

was impossible. The sergeant went out and after a long time returned with a jug of rum. Earle was on the guard with me and neither of us, as a rule, took our ration, but we did that night. We were trembling with cold and the sergeant gave each of us a cigarette tin of the liquor. I felt as if I could not swallow it and after a time things seemed to move, but I was warmed. It came my turn to go down and stand sentry by the ladder but I found it a very difficult task to reach the ground. Once there I clung to the ladder and watched the estaminet nearby go wheeling around. Earle had as difficult a time when he came down, but when we were relieved each of us went to sleep and slept warm until morning.
    Christensen, the Dane, got in wrong with the non coms on Sunday. He was told to prepare for church parade and would not do so, saying that he had no religion, that he was an infidel. They crimed him for it and ever afterward he was given sharp treatment. I was in a billet with Billy, the complainer, Earle, Laurie, Flynn, a quaint Irishman who had false teeth, and Theriault and Roy, two of the New Brunswick draft. We were in a house and slept fairly warm, but one night a rat stole Flynn’s teeth from where he had lain them by his head and went down between the walls withthem. Flynn roused everyone, but never recovered his grinders. Theriault and Roy were comical chaps and we got on well together.
    The sergeant-major called me to his billet one night and asked me if I cared to be promoted or not. Up to that hour I had been fairly content with my lot, but somehow – though I knew he meant it well – his words brought back all my old bitterness against the army. I refused to consider such a proposition, and he was far more courteous than I had expected. He told me that our draft was the finest bunch of men to join the battalion, though the 92nd had been considered an extra class, and that he wished to get some good N.C.O.’s from among us. I said nothing, but I knew that some of our men were of the very finest type, as well educated as any of the officers.
    The weather continued cold and one of our draft became sick. He was in a barn lying on straw and had little attention other than that of his mates. He was a college graduate, from a splendid home, and he died in hospital after being moved, having been neglected too long. Several of the boys were highly roused over it, Tommy especially, and it was rumoured that Christensen, who had become stretcher bearer, wrote a letter to the lad’s parents, a letter which was not allowed to go through, and for which he was again crimed.
    The new platoons were formed and we were shifted in our billets. I found myself moved to the other side of the village and teamed with a man named McDonald, an “original” 42nd man who had been in the transport section but had come to grief through some infraction of rules, and so was sent back to the company. He was a very likeable chap and we were soon good friends. Through him I got acquainted with several of the oldtimers: Westcott, a lance-corporal; Martin, a Lewis gunner, and Davies, our sergeant who was the finest non-com I met in France.
    One very bitter morning as we went from our billets to the cook kitchen, a considerable distance away, we passed the house where our company commander lodged. As we went by his window we heard him complaining to his batman that his shaving water was too cold . Tommy, a chap named Jasper, Arthur and myself had had for several mornings to use snow as water, rubbing it on our faces in lieu of washing, and trying to force a lather with the same. Water was very scarce. Tommy stopped and gave voice to feelings that we all had, and we appeared for parade without being shaved. Our officer was one sent to the company as a supernumerary,and he took great delight in putting us “up” for company office. Our major asked us why we had not shaved. “My shaving water was too cold,” said