Now they've popped me onto the upper-shelf of a
waiting ambulance; I can see nothing except what lies out at the back.
I at once start explaining to the nurse who accompanies us that I've
lost a very valuable brother--that he's probably looking for me
somewhere on the station. She's extremely sympathetic and asks the
chauffeur to drive very slowly so that we may watch for him as we go
through the station gates into the Strand.
We're delayed for some minutes while particulars are checked up of our
injuries and destinations. The lying cases are placed four in an
ambulance, with the flap raised at the back so we can see out. The
sitting cases travel in automobiles, buses and various kinds of
vehicles. In my ambulance there are two leg-cases with most
theatrical bandages, and one case of trench-fever. We're immensely
merry--all except the trench-fever case who has conceived an immense
sorrow for himself. We get impatient with waiting. There's an awful
lot of cheering going on somewhere; we suppose troops are marching and
can't make it out.
Ah, we've started! At a slow crawl to prevent jarring we pass through
the gates. We discover the meaning of the cheering. On either side the
people are lined in dense crowds, waving and shouting. It's Saturday
evening when they should be in the country. It's jolly decent of them
to come here to give us such a welcome. Flower-girls are here with
their baskets full of flowers--just poor girls with a living to earn.
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