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I must have been fortunate in the timing of the journey for by 4.30 the next afternoon I was in the terminal stages of a Turkish bath near Russell Square. It was quiet and two old fellows were discussing an item in the evening paper.
“I see”, said one mellow voice to the other, “we've been over the top again.” There was a note of complacency, of pride in his voice.
How nonplussed he would have been if he had known that one of ‘us’ was listening hot, indignant. ‘We’ indeed! Who the hell was he to say 'we'? Now I can understand the genuine note of sadness for the comradeship that had passed him by, though it surprises me that I think of 'comradeship' in this context at all. I have no memory of thinking of the men of my crews in that action. I must have told them to report back to Company HQ. I remember joining with another crew who were going out of action with their tank – the only one, as it turned out, to survive the action – because I had to refuse a terribly mangled infantry soldier a lift. He was grotesque, like the German's ‘kamerad’. He should have made me laugh if only I had retained my prep school sense of humour about physical deformity. “Hullo, figear”, we said – if we were big enough to be safe from retaliation – to a boy whose ears bore a striking resemblance to that fruit. Or, “Look sharp Hobson!”, to a boy whose features were so distorted that he was known as ‘hatchet face’. What fun, what wit! If only one could have seen the funny side of a grown man with his trousers full of faeces because his leg had been blown past his ear! Of course all that had been at 4.30 yesterday. At 4.30 today I was very comfortable in my Turkish bath.
“Mother, Mother … You will write to my mother sir, won't you?”
“No, blast you, I shan't! Shut up! Can't you see I don't want to be
disturbed?“ These old ghosts, they never die. They don't even fade away; they preserve their youth wonderfully. Why, you can even see the beads of sweat, still fresh, still distinct, against the pal