our tongues," I said, "fill them with water, fill them with (p. 128)
anything. Ready? To the Section cook, Stoner, long life and ability to
cook our sweets evermore."
We drank. Just as we had finished, our company stretcher-bearers came
by the door, a pre-occupied look on their faces and dark clots of
blood on their trousers and tunics.
"What has happened?" I asked.
"The cooks have copped it," one of the bearers answered. "They were
cooking grub in a shed at the rear near Dead Cow Villa, and a
pip-squeak came plunk into the place. The head cook copped it in the
legs, both were broken, and Erney, you know Erney?"
"Yes?" we chorused.
"Dead," said the stretcher-bearer. "Poor fellow he was struck unconscious.
We carried him to the dressing station, and he came to at the door.
'Mother!' he said, trying to sit up on the stretcher. That was his
last word. He fell back and died."
There was a long silence. The glory of the flowers seemed to have faded
away and the lighted cigars went out on the table. Dead! Poor fellow.
He was such a clean, hearty boy, very obliging and kind. How often had
he given me hot water, contrary to regulations, to pour on my tea. (p. 129)
"To think of it," said Stoner. "It might have been any of us! We must
put these flowers on his grave."
That night we took the little vase with its poppies, cornflowers,
pinks, and roses, and placed them on the black, cold earth which
covered Erney, the clean-limbed, good-hearted boy. May he rest in
peace.
CHAPTER X (p. 130)
A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
Our old battalion billets still,
Parades as usual go on.
We buckle in with right good will,
And daily our equipment don
As if we meant to fight, but no!
The guns are booming through the air,
The trenches call us on, but oh!
We don't go there, we don't go there!
I have come to the conclusion that war is rather a dull game, not that
blood-curdling, dashing, mad, sabre-clashing thing that is seen in
pictures, and which makes one fearful for the soldier's safety. There
is so much of the "everlastin' waitin' on an everlastin' road." The
road to the war is a journey of many stages, and there is much of what
appears to the unit as loitering by the wayside. We longed for action,
for some adventure with which to relieve the period of "everlastin'
waitin'."
Nine o'clock was striking in the room downstairs and the old
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