He would,
himself, kneel down on the muddy floor and bathe our feet. If at any time
we were "strapped" and wanted a one-pound note, we always knew where to go
for it. It was always Captain Parkes, and he never asked for an I.O.U.
either. On the gloomy wet nights of the winter he would play games with
us, and it was common to hear the boys remark that if we should ever get to
France as a unit, and our captain got out in front, it would not be one man
who would rescue him, but the whole company.
The day at Pond's Farm was more than a sad one when the old Ninth was made
into a Reserve Battalion. The men were so greatly discouraged and the
sergeants so grouchy that at times it became almost humorous.
One day, in late December, while at the butts, we were shooting at six
hundred yards, with Sergeant Jones in command of the platoon. We had
targets from Number One to Number Twenty inclusive, and the men were
numbered accordingly. At this distance we all did fairly well, except
Number One, who missed completely. For the sake of Number One the sergeant
moved us down to four hundred yards, and at this distance every man got a
bull's eye except Number One.
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