A few days later I went in to General Headquarters
to see what were the chances of a trip to New York. The officer whom I
consulted pulled out his watch, "It's noon now. There's a boat-train
leaving Euston in two and a half hours. Do you think you can pack up
and make it?"
_Did I think_!
"You watch me," I cried.
Dashing out into Regent Street I rounded up a taxi and raced about
London like one possessed, collecting kit, visiting tailors,
withdrawing money, telephoning friends with whom I had dinner and
theatre engagements. It's an extraordinary characteristic of the Army,
but however hurried an officer may be, he can always spare time to
visit his tailor. The fare I paid my taxi-driver was too monstrous for
words; but then he'd missed his lunch, and one has to miss so many
things in war-times that when a new straw of inconvenience is piled on
the camel, the camel expects to be compensated. Anyway, I was on that
boat-train when it pulled out of London.
I was in uniform when I arrived in New York, for I didn't possess any
mufti. You can't guess what a difference that made to one's
home-coming--not the being in uniform, but the knowing that it wasn't
an offence to wear it. On my last leave, some time ago before I went
overseas, if I'd tried to cross the border from Canada in uniform I'd
have been turned back; if by any chance I'd got across and worn
regimentals I'd have been arrested by the first Irish policeman. A
place isn't home where you get turned back or locked up for wearing
the things of which you're proudest.
Pages:
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49