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The technique of travel was simple – thumbing lifts. At the end of the first day I found myself at Étaples – where the communion service was said to be right behind the front line under gun-fire. Well, perhaps it was a bit exaggerated, but the news from the front seemed likely to make the lie approximate more closely to the truth by bringing the gun-fire up to the communion service.
A gunner captain with whom I travelled for about twenty miles said, “I see the wicked Germans have been bombing one of our hospitals.” He pointed to a newspaper paragraph and winked heavily. “Clearly marked with the Red Cross too. I know the ruddy place – there are ammunition dumps for at least five miles along the railway. They've got the hospital right in the middle of it. No wonder they marked it clearly with a Red Cross. I nearly had kittens every hour I was there – wound in my leg; couldn't run”, he explained.
I had been directed to bed down at a small hospital just outside Étaples. It appeared to be a peaceful spot. I found a friendly RAMC doctor who showed me where I could lie up for the night and as it was a lovely afternoon I unpacked my safety razor to mark the spot as mine, and decided to stroll round and move on after a night's rest.
“How is it you are so slack?” I asked him. “I would have thought you would be chock-a-block with wounded.”
“Efficiency, my lad. The moment this shemozzle started they sent all wounded that the Boche didn't or couldn't capture straight to England. Result – the first decent holiday we've had for years. We've got one poor devil in that but over there, that's all – he's dying anyway.”
I was worn out. I lay down under some pines and went to sleep. When I woke the sun was beginning to set. For a time I was aware of voices mingling with dozing dreams.