It swung towards me slowly
and a pile of bricks fell on my feet as it opened. Something dark and
liquid oozed out under my boots. I felt myself slip on it and knew
that I stood on blood. All the way up the rubble-covered stairs there
was blood, it had splashed red on the railings and walls. Laths,
plaster, tiles and beams lay on the floor above and in the midst of
the jumble was a shattered telescope still moist with the blood of
men. Had all been killed and were all those I had met a few days
before in the garret when the shell landed on the roof? It was
impossible to tell.
I returned to the dug-out meditating on the strange things that (p. 271)
can be seen by him who goes souvenir-hunting between Souchez and
Ypres. As I entered I found Bill gazing mutely at some black liquid in
a sooty mess-tin.
"Some milk, Bill," I said handing him the tin of Nestle's which had
just come to me in a Gargantuan parcel from an English friend.
"No milk, matey," he answered, "I'm feelin' done up proper, I am.
Cannot eat a bite. Tummy out of order, my 'ead spinnin' like a top.
When's sick parade?" he asked.
"Seven o'clock," I said, "Is it as bad as that?"
"Worse than that," he answered with a smile, "'Ave yer a cigarette to
spare?"
"Yes," I answered, fumbling in my pocket.
"Well, give it to somebody as 'asn't got none," said Bill, "I'm off
the smokin' a bit."
The case was really serious since Bill could not smoke, a smokeless
hour was for him a Purgatorial period, his favourite friend was his
fag.
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