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[Page 83]
October 27
6 a.m. Over the stunting – the guns still lewdly alive – the skies of the most wounderful mist grey-blue.. and through the thin poplars, just rising in rich white palely tipped mass- lovely clouds…the lightning of the guns for a while made sudden sponging of quick pale yellow.
89.
6 p.m. A Boche plane just over, and his bombs dropped near the station… entering in bed.: In the dugout tonight, the argument strong again on respective casualties of the different countries' Troops… words: words, and windy words.
There are two words in the A.I.F's vocabulary – two inimitable words, emphatic, picturesque. Rabelaisian and of a distinct meaning all their own.
A Review by Birdwood, and an address: one of Mr. Bean's reports, and Sir Douglas Haig's congratulations, and one of these characteristic words.
In the terrible elation that follows, I hate myself, hate and feel curses almost rise, that even I try to impartially judge.
Always I hark back to the Arts, and for their achievances, try and ponder them, and then comes the knowledge we of necessity do the same – our damned duties report each day the bombing of "enemy hutments and Billets". And tonight terrible nightmares have been from a successful, Christ 'successful'! – a successful, God the word shivers horror, bombing of enemy hutments and billets.
Tears came and sobs… and I couldn't help them… dressing a shattered body, out in the night, by the cold hard thin light of the moon.
Hatred surges up, and the while you're cutting blood and mud soaked tunics – feeling life blood thick on the stretcher, & winding white gauze over slowly welling blood and a muddied wound. Stretchers in the ankle mud – and their mates around the chaps they've carried over…. "Any hasn't been dressed" – "Over here digger."
Oh God, if I die I'm Australian.
And then poor bodies lie under blankets… two chaps came over to me and said, "he died mate! What will we do – he only came out of the line tonight, can we take him away in the morning!" And I wrote the dead boy's