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Updated: August 15, 2024
I see them plodding light-heartedly through the mud as they did on that gray September day, their faces wet with the rain, "an' a bloke standin' by the side of the road would think they was a-go'n' to a Sunday-school picnic." The sergeant was in a talkative mood. "Lissen to them guns barkin'! We're in for it this time, straight!" Then, turning to the men behind,
"Are we downhearted? Not likely, old son!" "Tyke a feel o' this little puffball! Smack on old Fritzie's napper she goes!" "I'm a-go'n' to arsk fer a nice Blightey one! Four months in Brentford 'ospital an' me Christmas puddin' at 'ome!" "Now, don't ferget, you blokes! County o' London War 'Ospital fer me if I gets a knock!
We ain't never a-go'n' to see service! You blokes won't, but watch me! I'm a-go'n' to grease off out o' this mob!" No one remonstrated with this deservedly unpopular reservist when he grumbled about the shortage of supplies. He voiced the general sentiment. We all felt that we would like to "grease off" out of it.
His comrades greeted such outbursts with hearty approval. "I'm with you there, mate! 'Ell won't be such a dusty old place if all the Christians go upstairs." "They ain't no God 'avin' anything to do with this war, I'm telling you! All the religious blokes in England an' France an' Germany ain't a-go'n' to pray 'Im into it!"
The great man got up, laughing, and went toward the door, rubbing the boy's hair the wrong way as he passed him. The hounds followed languidly, and Ulysses darted up the creaking staircase, and tumbled into the little attic room where Melissa sat gazing drearily out of the window. "They've got 'im!" he said breathlessly. "They're a-go'n' to hang 'im!"
"You haf to be quiet on Sunday nights, don't you?" "Yes'm. 'Ain' got no mo' kaytun till nex' Friday even'." "Oh, I bet that's the party for Miss Pratt at Mr. Parcher's!" Jane cried. "Didn't I guess right?" "Yes'm. I reckon I'm a-go'n' a see one you' fam'ly 'at night; see him dancin' wait on him at ref'eshmuns." Jane's expression became even more serious than usual. "Willie?
"'Ave you got yer wills made out, you lads? You're a-go'n' to see a scrap presently, an' it ain't a-go'n' to be no flea-bite, I give you my word!" "Right you are, sergeant! I'm leavin' me razor to 'is Majesty. 'Ope 'e'll tyke the 'int." "Strike me pink, sergeant! You gettin' cold feet?" "Less sing 'im, 'I want to go 'ome. Get 'im to cryin' like a baby." "W'ere's yer mouth-organ, Ginger?"
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