the stretcher-squads in the firing line than
lying there sick, and thinking those long, long thoughts.

This is how I would think--

"What a waste of life; what a waste... Christianity this; all part
of civilisation; what's it all for? Queer thing this civilised
Christianity... very queer. So this really IS war; see now: how does
it feel? not much different to usual... But why? It's getting awfully
sickening... plenty of excitement, too--plenty... too much, in fact;
very easy to get killed any time here; plenty of men getting killed
every minute over there; but it isn't really very exciting... not like I
thought war was in England... England? Long way off, England; thousands
of miles; they don't know I'm sick in England; wonder what they'd think
to see me now; not a bad place, England, green trees and green grass...
much better place than I thought it was; wonder how long this will hang
on... I'd like to get back after it's finished here; I expect it's all
going on just the same in England; people going about to offices in
London; women dressing themselves up and shopping; and all that...
This is a d----place, this beastly peninsula--no green anywhere... just
yellow sand and grey rocks and sage-coloured bushes, dead grass--even
the thistles are all bleached and dead and rustling in the breeze like
paper flowers...

"And we WANTED to get out here... Just eating our hearts out to get into
it all, to get to work--and now... we're all sick of it... it's rotten,
absolutely rotten; everything. It's a rotten war. Wonder what they are
doing now at home..."

CHAPTER XVIII. TWO MEN RETURN

I shall never forget those two little figures coming into camp.

They were both trembling like aspen leaves. One had ginger hair, and a
crop of ginger beard bristled on his chin. Their eyes were hollow and
sunken, and glittered and roamed unmeaningly with the glare of insanity.
They glanced with a horrible suspicion at their pals, and knew them not.
The one with the ginger stubble muttered to himself. Their clothes were
torn with brambles, and prickles from thorn-bushes still clung round
their puttees. A pitiful sight. They tottered along, keeping close
together and avoiding the others. An awful tiredness weighed upon them;
they dragged themselves along. Their lips were cracked and swollen and
dry. They had lost their helmets, and the sun had scorched and peeled
the back of their necks. Their hair was matted and full of sand. But