DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT
WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM
Waterloo Station in war time presents a picture of unending interest.
Here it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. It is one huge
scene of bustle and excitement. The khaki of the soldier, the blue of
the sailor; the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad partings,
the joyful greetings. The troops entraining, spick and span in their
new war kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the
soil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave,
tumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or
looking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last
train back.
The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.
Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the
last look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish
laughter--whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered
ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected
within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.
The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to
secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before
the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers,
and small groups were standing round each carriage door.
Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for
late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly.
Presently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells,
spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the
station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.
I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me
was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones
and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid
for lunch.
"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a
threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry
it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I
wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That
would suit me down to the ground."
"Looking for trouble already," said Jones.
"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then
home."
"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way,
who do you think is going to carry on the war?"
"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in
about a month's time will suit me down to the ground."
The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally
turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the
menu.
Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce
attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The
cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.
"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased
to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.
"And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins.
"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?"
The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not
drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes,
and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.
There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and
fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are
others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid
refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing
influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And
before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had
full play.
We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which
had been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an
anxious search for our kits.
It is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins
from America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system,
for those who travel with baggage in England have always the
possibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their
possessions.
There seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with
a trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it
will stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage
thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if
not provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to
arrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down
on the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its
indentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and
committing all these details securely to your memory, so that when you
arrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered
around the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and
frantically shout: "There it is!" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to
be finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.
Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true
you have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and
when fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly
alike.
That is how it was at Southampton town station, but we were all in
good spirits, thanks to the wine-list before mentioned; and as all
the owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncomfortable amount of
ordnance stores on their backs, the heap of luggage soon became
submerged beneath a still greater heap of energetic and perspiring
humanity, until the scene looked not unlike a very much disturbed
ant-hill.
But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration of my words, written in a
calm moment of thought is far less vociferous than the exaggerated
words used at the time during the frantic endeavour to seek one's
solitary kit bag, and extricate it in such a scramble.
But at last the four of us, bent double by our packs, and freely
perspiring in the heat of an August day, could be seen rolling,
pushing, kicking, and dragging our worldly belongings off the platform
towards the station entrance, to seek the hospitality of an ancient
hack. And then we drove away, our kit and our equipments stacked high
around us at precarious angles, and completely submerging the
occupants, to the delight of the people who stood and watched us in
open-mouthed amazement.