An officer comes through the train enquiring whether you
have any preference as to hospitals. Your girl lives in Liverpool or
Glasgow or Birmingham. Good heavens, the fellow holds your destiny in
his hands! He can send you to Whitechapel if he likes. So, even though
he has the same rank as yourself, you address him as, "Sir."
Perhaps it's because I've practised this diplomacy--I don't
know. Anyway, he's granted my request. I'm to stay in London. I was
particularly anxious to stay in London, because one of my young
brothers from the Navy is there on leave at present. In fact he wired
me to France that the Admiralty had allowed him a three-days' special
extension of leave in order that he might see me. It was on the
strength of this message that the doctors at the Base Hospital
permitted me to take the journey several days before I was really in a
condition to travel.
I'm wondering whether he's gained admission to the platform. I lie
there in my bunk all eyes, expecting any minute to see him enter. Time
and again I mistake the blue serge uniform of the St. John's Ambulance
for that of a naval lieutenant. They come to carry me out. What an
extraordinarily funny way to enter London--on a stretcher! I've
arrived on boat-trains from America, troop trains from Canada, and
come back from romantic romps in Italy, but never in my wildest
imaginings did I picture myself arriving as a wounded soldier on a Red
Cross train.
Still clutching my absurd linen bag, which contains my valuables, I
lift my head from the pillow gazing round for any glimpse of that
much-desired brother.
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