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[Page 9]
Sept. 29
of each breath for the whole afternoon..and when he died his face was full of the pain of his wounding, but full also of an infinite calm.
Another, of the 19th Battalion, his leg amputated. Consciously he fought from the time of his redressing…after an infusion of saline he fought harder, slept then and was evacuated. There was another Serg. of the 19th who lay aside of death for two hours, then he rallied and an infusion saved him.
But North I noticed before them all – only two others were in the resuscitation lines with him…and his perfect features, broad forehead and thick soft hair, and his pressed lips and sensitive nostrils.
One of the other two died, and the other rallied to be evacuated to C.C.S. I sat by North then, and wondered on all things. Nothing could be done for him beyond what had been done, and he was dying.
His struggle for life strong against death, but he died, and the pettiness and littleness of life about went on. Away across the world a home was to know agony and pain.
And the ultimate gain? Down the generations lying histories that tell of a wounding war, of brave men and nobleness.
"Honour has come back as a King to earth
And paid his subjects with a royal wage."
2.
Back from a walk about Steenvoorde and an evening in a private house with the conversation of two fine Flemish women, Frank buying from them a baby's bonnet of lace and ribbon.
It should have been a night solely of enjoyment, but I've the feeling of isolation – of loneliness in the crowd, and of talking and laughing without knowing,
'My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense".
and in the Billet now though alongside musick playin' & singin', and card players and talkin', I'm alone.
The night's brilliant and lively with the moon, and a mile away the Bosch is dropping bombs.
I have lain and thought of nothing, conscious of all but away from myself. Coming in, Frank left me to go across for orders. I leant on one of the struts and watched a group of players, and discovered myself a while later seeing nothing.
Tomorrow? Why tomorrow I may be
myself with yesterdays Ten Thousand Years.
This was how I felt after the Factory Corner stunting of Feb. and March, Becordel, lured the melancholia.