They stumbled and almost fell at every step. A man carrying
his coat and hat in one hand walked in front, and he seemed to be
exhorting those who followed to quicken their pace. I sympathised with
the man in front. Why did the men under the coffin walk so slowly? It
was a ridiculous way to carry a coffin, on the shoulders. Why did they
not use a stretcher? It would be the proper thing to do. I turned (p. 180)
to my brother.
"They should have stretchers, I told him."
"Stretchers?"
"And stretcher-bearers."
"Stretcher-bearers at the double!" he snapped and vanished. I flashed
back into reality again; the sentinel on the left was leaning towards
me; I could see his face, white under the Balaclava helmet. There was
impatience in his voice when he spoke.
"Do you hear the message?" he called.
"Right!" I answered and leant towards the man on my right. I could see
his dark, round head, dimly outlined above the parapet.
"Stretcher bearers at the double!" I called. "Pass it along."
From mouth to mouth it went along the living wire; that ominous call
which tells of broken life and the tragedy of war. Nothing is so poignant
in the watches of the night as the call for stretcher-bearers; there
is a thrill in the message swept from sentinel to sentinel along the
line of sandbags, telling as it does, of some poor soul stricken down
writhing in agony on the floor of the trenches.
For a moment I remained awake; then phantoms rioted before my (p.
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