Читать книгу On the right of the British line - Gilbert Nobbs - Страница 8

Waterloo Station in war time presents a picture of unending interest. Here it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. It is one huge scene of bustle and excitement. The khaki of the soldier, the blue of the sailor; the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad partings, the joyful greetings. The troops entraining, spick and span in their new war kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the soil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave, tumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or looking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last train back.

The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.

Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter—whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.

The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers, and small groups were standing round each carriage door.

Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Presently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.

I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid for lunch.

"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That would suit me down to the ground."

"Looking for trouble already," said Jones.

"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then home."

"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way, who do you think is going to carry on the war?"

"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in about a month's time will suit me down to the ground."

The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu.

Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.

"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.

"And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins.

"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?"

The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.

There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had full play.

We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which had been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an anxious search for our kits.

It is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins from America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for those who travel with baggage in England have always the possibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their possessions.

There seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to arrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down on the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and committing all these details securely to your memory, so that when you arrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered around the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.

Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true you have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and when fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly alike.

That is how it was at Southampton town station, but we were all in good spirits, thanks to the wine-list before mentioned; and as all the owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncomfortable amount of ordnance stores on their backs, the heap of luggage soon became submerged beneath a still greater heap of energetic and perspiring humanity, until the scene looked not unlike a very much disturbed ant-hill.

But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration of my words, written in a calm moment of thought is far less vociferous than the exaggerated words used at the time during the frantic endeavour to seek one's solitary kit bag, and extricate it in such a scramble.

But at last the four of us, bent double by our packs, and freely perspiring in the heat of an August day, could be seen rolling, pushing, kicking, and dragging our worldly belongings off the platform towards the station entrance, to seek the hospitality of an ancient hack. And then we drove away, our kit and our equipments stacked high around us at precarious angles, and completely submerging the occupants, to the delight of the people who stood and watched us in open-mouthed amazement.