Our Despatches from the Front (No. 118).
Page 15
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Two Taken and One Left; the Fortune of War.
(Continued from page 322.)
WITH A T17NNELLING CO., November, ,916. Here, almost every -day, a lorry
lriver clicks," and knowing this we .got along as sharply as the !hocking road would allow. There was a large shell hole in the Middle A the road where the filling had ;link; the driver slowed up for it A shriek of a shell, a Iroop," tad then all heaven and earth leemed to be mixed up together. in acrid smell and silence ; whilst le black cloud rose from the side A the lorry, which had stopped, and floated off—a genie of destruction wrapped in a filthy garment of rneke.
Killed While Driving.
It was a fitting pall for the scene. Elalf-dazed, I got down, and felt myself all over. I was all right ; but what about those silent figures in front with me.My mate lay Emil across the driving .wheel. The 3fficer leaned sideways at the back A him. Tremblingly I examined then', and hastily wiped the red blood from my hand. They were both dead. Fearfully I looked behind at the silent figures lying there, but not a movement.
I had only one idea—to get away from there,, and gently moving the bodies of the officer and my mate aside, I descended and restarted the engine. We had swerved across the road, and one back wheel was in soft stuff and would not grip at first. In my dazed haste I was perhaps clumsy, but managed to get the vehicle round, and with my ghastly burden just got away before another shell came over.
Death Taken Lightly. I knew of a dressing station on the road, and pulled up there. It was all more subconsciously done than reasoned out. I was still very groggy and conscious of driving very erratically. My story at the dressing station was not coherent ; but my load gave its own explanation. Even now I do not know if there were any surviving wounded. I do not want to ask. I had two slight scratches only ; they were noticed for the first time several hours after.
Yet one here can think of it as an incident, important for the moment, but now passed into the history of experience. My nerves are still shaky, but to a man in good physical condition and in this atmosphere of death, one can take the serious lightly—because one must.
THE END OF THE LINE, November, 1916.
The worst of leave is the speed with which the time passes, all too quickly one is ba:ck in the mud and slush doing the same old routine work and-leave is a, misty memory. It has its sad side too, for not until one meets mutual friends does one heai"that 'Jones went under in the first day of the Big Push, while Brown was shot down while flying low over the Boche lines on observation work.
It is good to get into the leave train though, and both there and OD. the boat there is a spirit abroad such as one remembers when. at school and the holidays came round. Even the discomfort of a bad crossing is mitigated by the thought of home comforts awaiting one, not the least of these being the prospect of unlimited baths and clean linen, well-cooked goods, and comfortable beds.