day.
Through country lanes the column of companies making up a battalion trudged and rolled, while flakes of snow floated down the sky, to drift through leafless elms bordering fields of plough in ridge and furrow, and low-lying grazing.
During a halt, he heard, above the mist now beginning to form over the fields, the faint cries of birds— seek, seek, they seemed to be crying. Seek, seek. He remembered other redwings, called by old labourers the wind-thrush, passing over the Seven Fields of his boyhood, flitting on south before the clacking field-fares arrived from Norway, in the sad winter months when food was so scarce upon land hard with frost. Seek — seek! through the foggy mist, redwings seeking the sun, flying before the cold north wind, which brought death to “colour and light and warmth”. Seek — seek. Seek always beauty of the spirit, the beauty sought by Francis Thompson, the outcast upon the Thames Embankment, who had left forever the ways of men. Phillip, who had first heard of the poet from his Aunt Theodora, had bought the three-volume Works, ordered at a bookshop in Grantham, and had read most of the poetry and prose with startling awareness of his own feelings.
A fine mud creamed the iron rims of limber wheels; the men sang along the marching column, they were on their way, having done with training, the sameness of parades, the hurry and sweat of pursued living. Before them lay seven days of trekking, with good billets at night, to be followed by four days embarkation leave—then away from it all, out with the rest of the boys; and, for Phillip, the zestful thought, once again the sharpness of life against the background of death. That was the natural life!
That night they came to Newark, and warm billets. The officers had quarters in an old inn, panelled with dark oak, and my word, said All Weather Jack, this is something like a dinner, as, washed and brushed up, they sat down at a table before a roaring fire and a sideboard on which stood, under pale spirit flames of large pewter chafing dishes, a saddle of mutton, a turkey, and roast ribs of beef. Half a dozen bottles of 1892 Chateau Pape-Clement claret accompanied the feast, finished off with a Stilton under a blue and white Wedgewood cover and ivory-handled scoops to cut out the crumbly cheese, like cubby holes in the front line. Packed tight with turkey, mutton, baked potatoes, celery,Christmas pudding with brandy butter, wine, cheese, coffee, and liqueurs, Phillip got into bed with his boots and spurs on, ready for stables in the dark of 6.30 a.m. After a breakfast as sumptuous as the dinner—the same chafing dishes now filled with devilled kidneys, grilled gammons of bacon, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, and tomatoes—washed down by coffee—the meal begun with porridge and cream—he faced the day and the future with hearty optimism, expressed by the thought, Let ’em all come!
They pulled up at a village where they were to spend three days on a firing range. Phillip and the trainee transport officer, a soft Yorkshireman a year or two older than himself, passed much of the time in the parlour of the small pub, their billet, drinking hot rum and lemon and playing games of ludo, snakes-and-ladders, draughts; and tiring of this, gambled on two-handed cut-throat bridge. After lunch, with strong Burton ale, Phillip decided to visit the company on the range, and setting off at a gallop, followed by his pupil, arrived there during the massed firing of guns. Unaware of the strength of XXX Burton, he pulled up Black Prince from the gallop to salute Captain Hobart, and found himself lying on his back upon grass, not quite knowing how he got there, his right arm still at the salute. The battalion colonel was standing about twenty yards away, watching a section firing in traversing bursts, so he neither heard nor saw what later Hobart called Sticks Turpin’s ride to Burton. His only other remark was, “Prince has played some polo, I fancy.”
Through country lanes the column of companies making up a battalion trudged and rolled, while flakes of snow floated down the sky, to drift through leafless elms bordering fields of plough in ridge and furrow, and low-lying grazing.
During a halt, he heard, above the mist now beginning to form over the fields, the faint cries of birds— seek, seek, they seemed to be crying. Seek, seek. He remembered other redwings, called by old labourers the wind-thrush, passing over the Seven Fields of his boyhood, flitting on south before the clacking field-fares arrived from Norway, in the sad winter months when food was so scarce upon land hard with frost. Seek — seek! through the foggy mist, redwings seeking the sun, flying before the cold north wind, which brought death to “colour and light and warmth”. Seek — seek. Seek always beauty of the spirit, the beauty sought by Francis Thompson, the outcast upon the Thames Embankment, who had left forever the ways of men. Phillip, who had first heard of the poet from his Aunt Theodora, had bought the three-volume Works, ordered at a bookshop in Grantham, and had read most of the poetry and prose with startling awareness of his own feelings.
A fine mud creamed the iron rims of limber wheels; the men sang along the marching column, they were on their way, having done with training, the sameness of parades, the hurry and sweat of pursued living. Before them lay seven days of trekking, with good billets at night, to be followed by four days embarkation leave—then away from it all, out with the rest of the boys; and, for Phillip, the zestful thought, once again the sharpness of life against the background of death. That was the natural life!
That night they came to Newark, and warm billets. The officers had quarters in an old inn, panelled with dark oak, and my word, said All Weather Jack, this is something like a dinner, as, washed and brushed up, they sat down at a table before a roaring fire and a sideboard on which stood, under pale spirit flames of large pewter chafing dishes, a saddle of mutton, a turkey, and roast ribs of beef. Half a dozen bottles of 1892 Chateau Pape-Clement claret accompanied the feast, finished off with a Stilton under a blue and white Wedgewood cover and ivory-handled scoops to cut out the crumbly cheese, like cubby holes in the front line. Packed tight with turkey, mutton, baked potatoes, celery,Christmas pudding with brandy butter, wine, cheese, coffee, and liqueurs, Phillip got into bed with his boots and spurs on, ready for stables in the dark of 6.30 a.m. After a breakfast as sumptuous as the dinner—the same chafing dishes now filled with devilled kidneys, grilled gammons of bacon, fried eggs, scrambled eggs, and tomatoes—washed down by coffee—the meal begun with porridge and cream—he faced the day and the future with hearty optimism, expressed by the thought, Let ’em all come!
They pulled up at a village where they were to spend three days on a firing range. Phillip and the trainee transport officer, a soft Yorkshireman a year or two older than himself, passed much of the time in the parlour of the small pub, their billet, drinking hot rum and lemon and playing games of ludo, snakes-and-ladders, draughts; and tiring of this, gambled on two-handed cut-throat bridge. After lunch, with strong Burton ale, Phillip decided to visit the company on the range, and setting off at a gallop, followed by his pupil, arrived there during the massed firing of guns. Unaware of the strength of XXX Burton, he pulled up Black Prince from the gallop to salute Captain Hobart, and found himself lying on his back upon grass, not quite knowing how he got there, his right arm still at the salute. The battalion colonel was standing about twenty yards away, watching a section firing in traversing bursts, so he neither heard nor saw what later Hobart called Sticks Turpin’s ride to Burton. His only other remark was, “Prince has played some polo, I fancy.”
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