' And you know it's impossible for them to make their load
any less. Can't be did. It isn't that they don't want--our job isn't
one that makes us any stronger, eh? But they can't. Too proud of
'em."
The burdens to be borne are formidable, and one knows well enough,
parbleu, that every item makes them more severe, each little
addition is one bruise more.
For it is not merely a matter of what one buries in his pockets and
pouches. To complete the burden there is what one carries on his
back. The knapsack is the trunk and even the cupboard; and the old
soldier is familiar with the art of enlarging it almost miraculously
by the judicious disposal of his household goods and provisions.
Besides the regulation and obligatory contents--two tins of pressed
beef, a dozen biscuits, two tablets of coffee and two packets of
dried soup, the bag of sugar, fatigue smock, and spare boots--we
find a way of getting in some pots of jam, tobacco, chocolate,
candles, soft-soled shoes; and even soap, a spirit lamp, some
solidified spirit, and some woolen things. With the blanket, sheet,
tentcloth, trenching-tool, water-bottle, and an item of the
field-cooking kit, [note 1] the burden gets heavier and taller and
wider, monumental and crushing. And my neighbor says truly that
every time he reaches his goal after some miles of highway and
communication trenches, the poilu swears hard that the next time
he'll leave a heap of things behind and give his shoulders a little
relief from the yoke of the knapsack.
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