certain amount of shoving and squeezing I was sitting on a train. I was beginning to lose track of the time – I felt as if I was enduring a night of never-ending delays, fatigue, noise, with my hands, face and feet freezing to death.
It must have been coming up to midnight. I had been travelling, if that is the word to describe what I had been doing, since just after an early breakfast.
The easiest part by far had been getting from my home in Bayswaterto Charing Cross Station, as I had called a cab which carried me and my luggage speedily and in some comfort. Thereafter everything degenerated and the rest of the day had been a particular kind of hell. My first-class warrant duly allowed me into the first-class carriage, but it was a mere technicality. I shared my compartment with what felt like two dozen ridiculously young soldiers, pink of face and shiny of expression, most of them with deep regional accents, all buckled up in khaki and webbing, weighed down with huge packs and strapped-on equipment. They were in good spirits, though, invariably addressed me as Sir, and all in all were a good crowd to be with. We were nonetheless crammed uncomfortably together.
Our slow journey to the port at Folkestone was torture: the train rarely travelled above walking speed and stopped, or so it seemed, at every signal between London and the Kent coast. When we finally reached the harbour station there was a mad scramble first to find a toilet, then to get in line for a mug of tea and some bread and butter. We embarked on the ship, but far from taking a relieved step into comparative comfort I discovered the ship was already crowded with soldiery who had arrived before us. Our own arrival vastly increased the confusion. I stuck it for a long time, knowing that these young men needed to be fed and watered as much as I did, and to stay in the ruck was probably my only chance of finding something to eat.
Once the ship was under way, instead of sailing across towards Boulogne it headed for the more distant Le Havre. It was when the choppy waves brought on the many cases of
mal de mer
and I escaped to the open boat deck that I encountered my new friend Bert.
I could not find Bert when I joined the train at Le Havre – perhaps I was too eager to gain myself a seat. However, I did manage to save a place beside me in case he should come along. The carriage filled up quickly, so I could not keep the seat next to me indefinitely. Soon a young private from the Lancashire Fusiliers thrust his weight down beside me. He offered me a cigarette and a swig from his bottle. His name was Frank Butler, he was nineteen years old and he was from Rochdale. It was his first time away from home. He talked enthusiastically about walking in the Pennine Hills, calling me Sir three times in every sentence. I started to doze in spite of Pvt. Butler’s constant chatter. Time began to pass more easefully than before.
Then my arm was shaken.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, sir?’
I opened my eyes and saw a tall army lance-corporal standing over me, leaning down at an angle through the crush of bodies.
‘Are you Commander Trent, sir? The scientist?’
‘I’m Mr Trent, that’s right. But –’
‘I’ve been hunting all along the train for you, sir. I’m ordered to look after you as my responsibility, and you’re in the wrong seat, sir, if I may say so. If I don’t get you where you ought to be I’m in big trouble and no mistake.’
His manner was respectful and his tone was polite. I did not want to get him into trouble, so with a great deal of difficulty and the cheerful help of some of the soldiers I removed my two large cases from the overhead rack. The train still had not moved from the harbour station. The lance-corporal and I forced the compartment door open and we half jumped, half fell to the platform.
‘They was holding the train up until I found you, sir,’ he shouted back over his shoulder at me.
He took the larger of my two cases
It must have been coming up to midnight. I had been travelling, if that is the word to describe what I had been doing, since just after an early breakfast.
The easiest part by far had been getting from my home in Bayswaterto Charing Cross Station, as I had called a cab which carried me and my luggage speedily and in some comfort. Thereafter everything degenerated and the rest of the day had been a particular kind of hell. My first-class warrant duly allowed me into the first-class carriage, but it was a mere technicality. I shared my compartment with what felt like two dozen ridiculously young soldiers, pink of face and shiny of expression, most of them with deep regional accents, all buckled up in khaki and webbing, weighed down with huge packs and strapped-on equipment. They were in good spirits, though, invariably addressed me as Sir, and all in all were a good crowd to be with. We were nonetheless crammed uncomfortably together.
Our slow journey to the port at Folkestone was torture: the train rarely travelled above walking speed and stopped, or so it seemed, at every signal between London and the Kent coast. When we finally reached the harbour station there was a mad scramble first to find a toilet, then to get in line for a mug of tea and some bread and butter. We embarked on the ship, but far from taking a relieved step into comparative comfort I discovered the ship was already crowded with soldiery who had arrived before us. Our own arrival vastly increased the confusion. I stuck it for a long time, knowing that these young men needed to be fed and watered as much as I did, and to stay in the ruck was probably my only chance of finding something to eat.
Once the ship was under way, instead of sailing across towards Boulogne it headed for the more distant Le Havre. It was when the choppy waves brought on the many cases of
mal de mer
and I escaped to the open boat deck that I encountered my new friend Bert.
I could not find Bert when I joined the train at Le Havre – perhaps I was too eager to gain myself a seat. However, I did manage to save a place beside me in case he should come along. The carriage filled up quickly, so I could not keep the seat next to me indefinitely. Soon a young private from the Lancashire Fusiliers thrust his weight down beside me. He offered me a cigarette and a swig from his bottle. His name was Frank Butler, he was nineteen years old and he was from Rochdale. It was his first time away from home. He talked enthusiastically about walking in the Pennine Hills, calling me Sir three times in every sentence. I started to doze in spite of Pvt. Butler’s constant chatter. Time began to pass more easefully than before.
Then my arm was shaken.
‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, sir?’
I opened my eyes and saw a tall army lance-corporal standing over me, leaning down at an angle through the crush of bodies.
‘Are you Commander Trent, sir? The scientist?’
‘I’m Mr Trent, that’s right. But –’
‘I’ve been hunting all along the train for you, sir. I’m ordered to look after you as my responsibility, and you’re in the wrong seat, sir, if I may say so. If I don’t get you where you ought to be I’m in big trouble and no mistake.’
His manner was respectful and his tone was polite. I did not want to get him into trouble, so with a great deal of difficulty and the cheerful help of some of the soldiers I removed my two large cases from the overhead rack. The train still had not moved from the harbour station. The lance-corporal and I forced the compartment door open and we half jumped, half fell to the platform.
‘They was holding the train up until I found you, sir,’ he shouted back over his shoulder at me.
He took the larger of my two cases
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