The Glory of the Trenches | Page 8

the knowledge that you let your pals
down by showing cowardice.
The next step on the road to Blighty is from the Casualty Station to a
Base Hospital in France. You go on a hospital train and are only
allowed to go when you are safe to travel. There is always great
excitement as to when this event will happen; its precise date usually
depends on what's going on up front and the number of fresh casualties
which are expected. One morning you awake to find that a tag has been
prepared, containing the entire medical history of your injury. The
stretcher-bearers come in with grins on their faces, your tag is tied to
the top button of your pyjamas, jocular appointments are made by the
fellows you leave behind--many of whom you know are dying--to meet
you in London, and you are carried out. The train is thoroughly
equipped with doctors and nurses; the lying cases travel in little white
bunks. No one who has not seen it can have any idea of the high good
spirits which prevail. You're going off to Blighty, to Piccadilly, to dry
boots and clean beds. The revolving wheels underneath you seem to
sing the words, "Off to Blighty--to Blighty." It begins to dawn on you
what it will be like to be again your own master and to sleep as long as
you like.
Kindness again--always kindness! The sisters on the train can't do
enough; they seem to be trying to exceed the self-sacrifice of the sisters
you have left behind. You twist yourself so that you can get a glimpse
of the flying country. It's green, undisturbed, unmarred by shells--there

are even cows!
At the Base Hospital to which I went there was a man who performed
miracles. He was a naturalised American citizen, but an Armenian by
birth. He gave people new faces.
The first morning an officer came in to visit a friend; his face was
entirely swathed in bandages, with gaps left for his breathing and his
eyes. He had been like that for two years, and looked like a leper. When
he spoke he made hollow noises. His nose and lower jaw had been torn
away by an exploding shell. Little by little, with infinite skill, by the
grafting of bone and flesh, his face was being built up. Could any
surgery be more merciful?
In the days that followed I saw several of these masked men. The worst
cases were not allowed to walk about. The ones I saw were invariably
dressed with the most scrupulous care in the smartest uniforms, Sam
Browns polished and buttons shining. They had hope, and took a pride
in themselves--a splendid sign! Perhaps you ask why the face-cases
should be kept in France. I was not told, but I can guess--because they
dread going back to England to their girls until they've got rid of their
disfigurements. So for two years through their bandages they watch the
train pull out for Blighty, while the damage which was done them in
the fragment of a second is repaired.
At a Base Hospital you see something which you don't see at a
Casualty Station--sisters, mothers, sweethearts and wives sitting beside
the beds. They're allowed to come over from England when their man
is dying. One of the wonderful things to me was to observe how these
women in the hour of their tragedy catch the soldier spirit. They're very
quiet, very cheerful, very helpful. With passing through the ward they
get to know some of the other patients and remember them when they
bring their own man flowers. Sometimes when their own man is asleep,
they slip over to other bedsides and do something kind for the solitary
fellows. That's the army all over; military discipline is based on
unselfishness. These women who have been sent for to see their men
die, catch from them the spirit of undistressed sacrifice and enrol
themselves as soldiers.

Next to my bed there was a Colonel of a north country regiment, a
gallant gentleman who positively refused to die. His wife had been with
him for two weeks, a little toy woman with nerves worn to a frazzle,
who masked her terror with a brave, set smile. The Colonel had had his
leg smashed by a whizz-bang when leading his troops into action.
Septic poisoning had set in and the leg had been amputated. It had been
found necessary to operate several times owing to the poison spreading,
with the result that, being far from a young man, his strength was
exhausted. Men forgot their own wounds in watching this one man's
fight for life. He became symbolic of what, in varying degrees, we were
all doing. When he was passing through a crisis the whole ward