HOW THE WOUNDED COME HOME.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 221, 27 October 1916, Page 3 (Supplement)

HOW THE WOUNDED COME HOME.

CLOCKWORK PRECISION OF THA JI.A.M.C. JOY OF THE I'IRSI GLIMPSE OF OGLAND. (Special Correspondent of London "JJailv Chronicle.'*'

At the entrance to the Adm'.raJVy Pier, lour or five old ladies are sitting in tho shadow of a wall, one of them reading a paper, the rest knitting. Thr v come there every day just to wave handkerchiefs as the ambulance trains rumble past on the way to a tunnel. The sentry at the gate examines my pass and allows me to proceed. 1 walk along railway lines for about 50 yards and then mount the platform of a "large station which has been built since trie war. i made my way to the extreme end of tin, long platform, and pass out on to the Admiralty Pier.

Jwo or three ancient mariners, with peaked caps over their eyes and pipe.-, in their bearded mouths, are sitting jn the ground, their backs against the station wall, their legs stretched out in front of them.

"HERE SHE COMES!" Suddenly, as 1 stand baking and grizzling in the afternoon glare, the sound ol a siren comes from the *ea, its vigorous " whoop-whoop-whoop*' seemnrg as if it strikes tire smooth water and bounces shoreward like a Hat pebble, playing du<iks-and-drakes. One of the ancient mariners says drowsily. "Hero »!;o conies, then ! r and shove's his cap ii]) in order to scratch Ins head. Tho others say .something about being ;:i good lime. I look seaward, wondering how tliH picture of England will strike on: wounded, fresh from the battlefields of Fiance. And as I stand, looking for the funnel to appear over the fctone wall, there conies another sound from the dst-ince. -- a heavy, churlish, itfumpy sound as though some giant were shoving great hlocks of sky into new places. ••There go the guns,-' savs a nantient manner; "they're still \.t it." And he laughs good-naturedly. The guns in France continue to shak* the air, rumbling and grumbling across the smooth sea, as though they were Persuing tin* hosp:tril .ship into harbour. Presently above the stone pier I see Mvift-moving funnel and masts; and then, in a moment, a great white ship, with a broad band of green from stem to stem aj;pears at the entrance c? tho harbour, and comes pointing towards us flying the blue ensign and th'j Red Cross.

I hoar the cry "Fall in!" from tho station and, looking over my shoulder, <wei a body of R.A.M.C. men formm? up in their shirtsleeves. Tho ancient mariners get slowly on their ponderous [«?et. All official of the harbour appears briskly, giving brusque orders. Then two naval officers, followed by a captain 'i fthe R.A.M.C, make their appearpnefl on the pier. No one in this group shows the least excitement. There is 10 hurry and no fuss. »»o l'ght a eigurottb and talk of the heat.

EXDURTNG PICTURE OF •BLIGHTY. Cut think what it means to the men «n tho white ship—this coming home, this steady and enduring picture of "Blighty'' after the hell in France;— those white cliffs, the little terraced house*, the tradesman's cart rattling round a corner, the bathers diving from tho stern of a boat and swimming after v football, the children in perambulators on the parade, the old people reading newspapers in the glass she Iters, tho peace, the sleepiness, the unconquerable composure ot Old Blighty. They crowd the ship, and all are gazing at this picture of England. There i* neither gloom nor pleasure visib : 'i n their faces. 1 look up to the and sec brown faces of young men whoso brans are busy with questions which do not show. They are all in their mud-clotted khaki, some in steel helmets, some in woollen caps, somewith only bandages ovei their heads — an enormous crowd of them loading tho white ship . They stand on the decks looking before them, not smiling, not speaking, but just quietly takng in this picture of Oid Blighty enjoying its afternoon nap. Never came ship more silently into harbour. I want to cheer, but cannot muster enough courage. 1 want to take off my hat, but find 1 have too much. self-consciousness for the act. It is not easy to stand there facing all those silent eyes, thinking of what they haV3 buffered. As 1 look up at the ship i see orderlies going to and fro with mugs of tea and trays of cake. Hie wounded men help themselves from these trays, eating cakes and drinking tea with a cigarette still smouldering between their finders.

PROCESSION' OF AVERAGE MEN. The ancient mariners have row made the ship fast, and gangways are being swiftly run out triom the pier. The R.A.M.C. officer exchanges a few words witli another R.A.M.C. officer on board. Orderles march up gangways, tarrying stretchers, and disappear in the crowd of wounded men. A boy appears on the scene with newspapers. A sergeant at the entrance to the station begins to pile together a i-umber of walking sticks and crutches. Then fta order is called out and down the gangway come the wounded who can walk, some of them still munching currant cake. It is ;i procession of the average ma i from tho average street of thj ovcrago town. Only now and then do you sco a remarkable person, as when a tall and very handsome Australasian, with a bunch of cock's feathers in his broadbrimmed hat, comes striding down thd gangway like a king, for the moat part the men are" not remarkable. They represent a uat:on rather than its army. Tiny arc nut men who love war, but who hate war. They are or .- tlier citizens who have taken up arms to destroy tyranny. They are not very tall and "nit very strong and not very handsome. And they are mm of alt ages, from boyhood to grey hairs. Ono has his aim in a sUig, another walks on crutches; another is bandaged round liie forehead: another is without vtsiL!o =ign of hurt. Each man has a label atatched to a button of Ins tunic. There is no no se. scarcely a sound.

NUT A SINGLE WHIMPER. Away they go as quickly as. they can, beginning to snide more and to talk aiming tliom.-eiws, nobbling, hopping, and walking from the pier to the rail wav station, just >< crowd of English men in khaki. Then fellow the stretcher rases. Sometimes the face on tho stretched Ls white, sometimes grey. soniet. : ines so bronzed and splendid th.it you cannot, believe the man is hurt. The eyes star.' at me as the stretcher i'(v\s b'v en its way t'> the station, soma smiling some rv. >ii mil:.:. s>oiue seeing noll'.ing.