The Somme by H. G.; A. D.; Wells Gristwood

did not know how long it would take to load the train, and no one seemed able to enlighten him. By this time it was four o’clock, and the hot afternoon sun made the carriage intolerably stuffy. Everitt began to believe the journey might prove less amusing than he had been given to understand. There was nothing whatever to do, and he could only watch the movements outside at the expense of a crick in the neck. The man on the top berth opposite was too badly hurt to give any answer to his attempt at conversation, and Everitt in his loneliness discovered that he was incredibly tired and sleepy. An orderly approaching, he learned that the train was now fully loaded. ‘But she never starts before midnight – else the Jerries ’ud see us, and there’d be dirty work.’ Whether from guns or bombs he did not say, but the prospect of eight hours’ delay was sufficiently depressing. Something of this must have appeared in his face, for the other was impelled to cheer him. ‘Tea’s at five and you’ll be at Rouen to-morrow morning.’
    This was news indeed. Rouen he had seen several times – a wide-spreading town standing finely in the broad Seine valley, noteworthy in passing for the steep wooded hills over the river, the grey Cathedral with its curiously truncated tower, and the iron suspension-bridge that carries the railway. He would rather it had been Abbeville or Boulogne, whence Blighty was obviously more accessible, but were there not ambulance-ships sailing direct from Rouen riverwards to Southampton? The orderly confirmed this, and, learning the extent of Everitt’s hurts, told him he was ‘a dead cert for Blighty.’ ‘They’re bunged up with bad cases at all the Bases – too bad to move – and they daren’t keep any others there long.’
    This was better still and a third meal went far to bind the spell – hot tea in enamelled bowls (blue outside and white within), bread and butter spread with liberal jam, and actually a hunk of cheese to follow. The friendly orderly – a pale, weedy, spectacled youth in baggy trousers – brought him another pillow to ease his injured leg, and in something very like contentment Everitt pulled the blankets over his head to chew the cud of comfort.
    For to be in repose of mind and body after long weeks of suffering is perhaps the greatest blessing the weary world can show. He must have seemed an object pitiable enough, soiled with dirt and sweat, ragged and unshaven, but to lie there in comfort, free for the time from pain, secure from danger, exulting in the knowledge that in a few hours he would be carried away from all the complicated horrors of war, was a very fair substitute for Heaven.
    In a few minutes he must have been asleep, for, opening his eyes again, he found that night had fallen. The train was motionless, but he had no notion if it were still in the clearing-station. The compartment, dimly lit by a shaded lamp round which moths were dancing feverishly, was eerie enough in the gloom. Occasionally a groan or a curse came from a man suffering beyond endurance. The air was rank with exhalations, hot, stuffy, and intolerably offensive. Dirt, stale sweat, dried blood, varnish and a smell of drugs and food contended together in a sickening medley. Outside the guns still boomed in harsh chorus, softened by distance from a bark to a roar, but tireless as ever. Someone said it was ten o’clock and consigned the Red Cross to Hell for the delay.
    A little later came the Doctor and Sister on their rounds. In that crowded box there was little they could do – largely their duty was to change essential dressings, make minor adjustments for comfort’s sake, and, principally and above all, to speak a cheering word to souls sorely in need of it. Always the men tried to catch the Sister’s eye, eager for a word, and grinning with gratification when they received it. Once again they were all