There was no apparent
shortage; I got everything that I required. Next day I boarded a train
which, I was told, would carry me to the Front. We puffed along in a
leisurely sort of way. The engineer seemed to halt whenever he had a
mind; no matter where he halted, grubby children miraculously appeared
and ran along the bank, demanding from Monsieur Engleeshman
"ceegarettes" and "beescuits." Towards evening we pulled up at a
little town where we had a most excellent meal. No hint of war yet.
Night came down and we found that our carriage had no lights. It must
have been nearing dawn, when I was wakened by the distant thunder of
guns. I crouched in my corner, cold and cramped, trying to visualise
the terror of it. I asked myself whether I was afraid. "Not of Death,"
I told myself. "But of being afraid--yes, most horribly."
At five o'clock we halted at a junction, where a troop-train from the
Front was already at a standstill. Tommies in steel helmets and
muddied to the eyes were swarming out onto the tracks. They looked
terrible men with their tanned cheeks and haggard eyes. I felt how
impractical I was as I watched them--how ill-suited for
campaigning. They were making the most of their respite from
travelling. Some were building little fires between the ties to do
their cooking--their utensils were bayonets and old tomato cans;
others were collecting water from the exhaust of an engine and
shaving. I had already tried to purchase food and had failed, so I
copied their example and set about shaving.
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