But every time he is preparing
for departure, he assumes again the same overbearing and almost
superhuman load; he never lets it go, though he curses it always.
"There are some bad boys," says Lamuse, "among the shirkers, that
find a way of keeping something in the company wagon or the medical
van. I know one that's got two shirts and a pair of drawers in an
adjutant's canteen [note 2]--but, you see, there's two hundred and
fifty chaps in the company, and they're all up to the dodge and not
many of 'em can profit by it; it's chiefly the non-coms.; the more
stripes they've got, the easier it is to plant their luggage, not
forgetting that the commandant visits the wagons sometimes without
warning and fires your things into the middle of the road if he
finds 'em in a horse-box where they've no business--Be off with
you!--not to mention the bully-ragging and the clink."
"In the early days it was all right, my boy. There were some
chaps--I've seen 'em--who stuck their bags and even their knapsacks
in baby-carts and pushed 'em along the road."
"Ah, not half! Those were the good times of the war. But all that's
changed."
Volpatte, deaf to all the talk, muffled in his blanket as if in a
shawl which makes him look like an old witch, revolves round an
object that lies on the ground. "I'm wondering," lie says,
addressing no one, "whether to take away this damned tin stove. It's
the only one in the squad and I've always carried it.
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