"DEAR OLD BLIGHTY"

Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 253, 13 July 1918, Page 2

"DEAR OLD BLIGHTY"

♦ FROM A HOSPITAL WINDOW MUSINGS OF A SOLDIER England is England still, but to the home-loving New Zealandcr who has dufiuito notions and lon&iigs Euglund, climatically and topographically, perhaps, is not so inspiring a place us the long list of English poets would have iw believe. Ideas on this subject are strengthened by the following letter, written by Sergeant Oscar Gallic, of Wellington, to his parents iu Wellington. Jlr. Gallic writes from the Walton-on-Thamcs Hospital (where he is recovering from a gunshot wound) to his parents as follows :— "Dear old Home,—A wet morning after two ii'ie, sunny days. Truly this is a, land of variable climate. One could Jiot wish for a more perfect <lay than was yesterday. It was real summer. Xow to-day wo are sunk into deepest winter. Although 'Mighty' is dear old 'Blighty' yet, somehow or other I should not be content to live always hero, neither, I'm sure, would any of you. Its beauty h tho artificial beauty of cultivation, created ond preserved by tho hand of man. Perfect poaco seems k> surround everything hero among I ho village, and lilies, and brooks, und canals,, ami viie dear old Uivcr Thames. Luxuriant grow tlie welltrimmed hedges and ancient trees and shrubberies und garden plot*, all so trim and neat ami clean. And tho small meadows of thick green clover and rape, all bounded by tidy hedges_ of hawthorn and rows of chopped-off, Vjushy willows, suggest jealously guarded area, where one would expect, to liud at every turn notice boards advising one to "Keep oIK the grass.' No, 1 think you would ail ' bo like mo, and after a term pine ior tho wild hills of nature among which we have been bred. Then the long months of winter would be trying to you, but still that would be compensated for by the delight of the sunny summer days. I know wore you but hero, you would fio into ecstacies of delight at all you saw of rural England, recalling to mind all you have read of tho Old Homeland. Almost forgotten memories would he revived, and lnaay a scene would come back to yon from tho pages of your school render. "Yestciday afternoon when lazily drifting downstream in an Indian canoe, all alone, too, for I often prefer to be alone I came to Sunbury Lock, und there I saw a typical old-time water-wheel, onto employed by a miller to work his mill. Tho flume race was covered with fresh watercress, willows, and a hoary old oak shaded over all. Just over the river is tho villago of Suubury, vfitk its tall church-spire and quaint housos. Tho only sound of industry about the old mill was the lusty singing of a lark, high, up in the blue, the warbling of a thrush, and the mutterings of a ouckoo. Fat dairy cattlo of mixed breeds loafod and fed on the rich clover of a small hedgedin paddock—l mean meadow—and all thnt was wanted to complete tho nisi is scene wae a milkmaid singing blithely. Instead of that a motor-car went hooting by, and a dirty, smoky tug dragged two coal-laden barges past mo up the river. . . . It's taken me half un hour to write do far. Some galoot has been banging fiendishly on the piano in the adjoining room, Ho'e still at it. I can't think connectedly. I will go and kick him. ... Yes, it's all right. I can still work mv riglit hand, so we'll proceed. If I only had a Hills bomb I'd soon fix that digger at the piano!.. - . It's raining at top. Out through the window here inn forget-me-nots and pansies and wallflowers are shooting up at the rate of. inches per hour. On the flagpole and from tho ends of its yardarm hangs down like wet clothes our New Zealand Hag with its Union Jaok and the stars of the old Cross. Opposite dejectedly droops the lied Cross on its ground of white. All about me are other diggers in blue, silently reading or writing. . . . From another room tho click of billiard bails and scraps of digger talk (very well selected aud controlled) come waftmg through the glass-doors, between the intervals, all too brief, of that musical gentleman's one-fingered, loud-pedalled, soul-startling masterpieces. • • . Over bevond, the big mansion near by slowly rolls tho Thames. The -river here is about the width of the Waikato at Ila.n. iltori. All along the opposite bank, lucked away rosily among the willows and oaks, are dozens of small doll-lifco houses, of all eorta of shapes and colours. Thev are the snmmer bivvy* of holiday-maters, like the whares at DaVs Bay. There tho young bloods, and maids, and dowagers, and tired suburban dade forget the noisy city, and revel in the river and among the fields by day, and tune up the old gramophone by night. A few trippers are there already. The girls row past the hip;h wall boundary of the hospital grounds, and after soVen in tho evening the wall is lined with scores of wounded diggers in blue, spatting there,, and chiacking the girls (who like it), until the bugle at 8 o'clock warns them oil to retire to their wards or tents. From 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. we ore free to wander about the village or along tho river bank. . . . Tha.t fat imp Cupid has had very busy days sniping digger in blue and fair maids along that old wall, and on tho ehady banks of the river here at loved Walton. So far I have l>eon immune from the rotund boy's jokes, as I have been from' Fritz's H.E. fragments nnd shrapnel, but like the H.E. and elvrapnel, the fat lad's arrows have often whizzed perilously near me, impaling chaps alongside me. One day, though, in a canoe, one did lo)> alongside me, but it was a dud. What wonderfully thrilling escapee we do have nt times. "Looking through the window the rain, I can see a string of Bed Cross motors, driven by smart girls,, coming through the great main gateway. _ They line up in front of the main building. It is a convoy with cot cases of broken diggers from France. No matter how smashed nil will be, they will be smiling broadly and contentedly. And so we drift along. Once a week twelve hours' leave can be obtained after a lot of red tape application. Those who get this leave, of course, go to the Big Smoke, and wander alwut its crowded streots. Though I've had plenty of opportunities, I have not had a day in London yet. It needs money, and mine I want for fnturo splashing. We only get 7s. a fortnight while iu blues. No matter what credit one has in his pay-book, he can't draw more than 7s. each two weake. This Sα. 6d. a week soon goes about the village ond on the river. I took, two of the nurses for a row up the river the other day. Wo wore away three hours—boat, Is.' Gd. per hour; ten, without sugar, bread with a light varnishing of margerino, and a tiny piece of cake each, Is. 3d. S>o there went Bs. lid. bang! Living in this land costs a lot now. Most folks are now used- to doing without sugar. Novcr see it now on porridge or puddings. White bread is as extinct ns tho dodo. Only brown bread is obtainable, which is a change for the better, ifeat is only allowed twice a week—rationed. Eggs—l saw them marked up in Ihe village IJd. each. Everylhing-food, clothing, anything, in fact, is as bijjh as Baldwin. One compensation in .being a soldier is that wo have no worries about food and clothing, as the poor civics have. See them on a train nnd on tho streets. Poor old paterfamilias Subbubs!"