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[Page 74]
the sun – in the distance the blue ocean sparkling like a jewel.
Up the narrow winding path with its border of sad little mounds, one of which may be my lot before I can get to the Hospital Ship (We are always under the enemy's fire)
Placidly come some Indians with ammunition mules. It seems more like a scene in a play than one of the most tragic drams in the world's history.
I am not left long in doubt as to the reality of it all. A buzzing as of a huge bee – a flash of yellow flame – on the ground a mangled heap from which slowly trickles a dull red stream Far away across the sapphire ocean just a few more will be waiting in vain for the return of their loved ones.
I reach the clearing station – it presents a scene of well-ordered confusion; everywhere on the narrow beach are numbers of wounded awaiting their removal to the Hospital Ship. This cannot be carried out till well after sundown, for the enemy are sending a continuous rain of shells in this direction.
Ere our transfer to the boats we each have a label pinned on to us stating the nature of our wound. Many are gasping out their lives before they can be transferred to the boats.
We are put into the boats and are towed away to the Hospital Ships – we are towed from ship to ship; always the same reply, "Full up" – eventually we manage to get aboard one. The cot