kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the
soil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave,
tumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or
looking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last
train back.

The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.

Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the
last look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish
laughter--whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered
ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected
within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.

The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to
secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before
the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers,
and small groups were standing round each carriage door.

Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for
late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly.
Presently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells,
spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the
station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.

I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me
was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones
and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid
for lunch.

"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a
threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry
it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I
wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That
would suit me down to the ground."

"Looking for trouble already," said Jones.

"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then
home."

"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way,
who do you think is going to carry on the war?"

"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in
about a month's time will suit me down to the ground."

The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally
turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the
menu.

Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce
attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The
cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.