"Fall in, fall in--very bad, very bad, absolutely disgraceful!" bawled
our infuriated C.O. "If you don't do it correctly this time, you'll get
an hour's extra drill every day for a week! Now dismiss them again,
Sergeant!"

The prospect of extra drill filled us with dismay. Sore shouldered,
stiff, and aching in every limb, oppressed and wearied in mind and body,
we only had one intense desire--to get away, to hide somewhere, to enjoy
at least a brief spell of warmth and comfort.

The Sergeant gave the command, and we dismissed a second time. We went
through the absurd performance with anxious punctiliousness, but three
men, either through fear, weariness or carelessness, made some slight
mistakes and their names were taken for extra drill.

As soon as the men were off the parade ground there was a wild stampede
in the direction of the cook-house.

The scramble became a mad hustle. The men raced along the duckboards or
splashed through the mud in a frantic attempt to get served first,
pulling their mess-tins and plates out of their haversacks as they ran.

It was growing dark and a few snowflakes were floating about in the air.
The sky was a murky leaden colour.

As I stood waiting in the dinner queue I had an imaginary fight with our
Commanding Officer. I knocked him down and gloated over him as he lay
sprawling in the mud with my hand savagely clutching his throat. Our
pent up feelings often found relief in vindictive dreams.