Free The Somme by H. G.; A. D.; Wells Gristwood Page A

rather the greyer side of war. At all events Everitt must needs let the newcomers know what they might expect up yonder, and he felt a hopeless pity for them when he heard they were to ‘have a cut at Hazy Trench to-morrow.’
    It seemed these men of the Oakshires were relieving Everitt’s battalion, and the stretcher-party was at last confirmed in the vague report it had brought from headquarters. The new-comers were good fellows and shared with the party the contents of a whole precious water-bottle. Someone produced a cigarette – just one ‘Woodbine’ – which Everitt received as by divine right. He felt himself a cur to accept such a treasure – a greater sacrifice to the donor than anyone could realize who had never shared the occasion – and for the first time had an inkling of the privileges of a ‘casualty.’ Words are feeble tools to describe the joy of that three minutes’ smoke. At such times at these frayed nerves shriek for tobacco. Ever afterwards he could relish the taste of that cigarette, the puff and pause and exhalation, the scent of the smoke, the glow of the red ash before it fell. It was good to know they were far enough back for smoking to be permissible. The others, poor fellows, had no cigarettes, and doubtless cursed their luck, if silently, no less fervently. Remember they were carrying the smoker ‘out,’ perhaps to Blighty, while they would remain indefinitely. Yet all they said was, ‘Lucky devil!’
    Continuing their journey, they crossed a deep trench that Everitt remembered by reason of a peculiarly aggravating fall he had made there into slimy darkness. But the mud had dried after a hot day, and in the moonlight it was far easier to negotiate. This marked another stage in the journey. They were going down-hill now, and the Verey lights rose but a little way above the ridge behind them. Also they rejoiced in the consciousness of men and guns between them and the enemy. Certainly the worst was passed.
    Another hour’s journey brought them to a group of dug-outs, where they found scattered fragments of the Loamshires. One and all were disciples of Mr. Micawber. This was ‘support,’ and here was battalion headquarters and the regimental aid-post. Under normal circumstances it is the duty of the Medical Officer of a battalion in the line to examine all casualties in his unit, administering first-aid and dispatching them rearwards with some kind of passport tied to their clothing. (Naturally these ‘chits’ are prized above rubies.) But that night the majority of the Loamshires were casualties, and there was no attempt to meddle with the wounded. The party halted for some time on the strength of a rumour that the field-ambulance men were carrying from the aid-post to the advanced dressing-station on the road. The M.O. confined himself to wandering half heartedly from stretcher to stretcher (and there were many), asking men if they were ‘all right,’ and passing on before they had had time to answer. And, indeed, in the darkness, and with practically no shelter, he could do no more.
    After half an hour two R.A.M.C. men appeared. They had a party working on the road to the dressing-station, but the battalion bearers must carry on for another half-mile. This was a bombshell to tired men who were expecting relief from a burden they must have hated. A sergeant asked Everitt if he could manage to walk to the road, and two of the men offered to help him. With his fit arm round the neck of one and supported by both, he attempted some kind of shuffling progress, but, the wounded leg proved useless and exquisitely painful. Everitt, in disgust at the infinity of trouble he was causing, offered to stay where he was until daylight, when ‘someone will pick me up,’ but the four men, hiding their disappointment under cheerful curses at the expense of the R.A.M.C., shouldered their burden once again, and carried it