HOMEWARD
The tents sway and flap vigorously as gusts of wind tear through the
camp, carrying clouds of sand across the island. Through the darkness
comes the sound of the lashing of the date palms and the tamarisks as
they swing to the gale. Within a straining, war-worn tent, lit by a
flickering candle, stuck in a grease-streaked bottle, sit several
mounted men of the old Brigade, their faces brown and weather-beaten
from long campaigning in the Sinai Desert and amid Palestine hills.
The gear and stuff scattered casually about the tent tell it is the
abode of an old hand of long service, who worries little about the
frills of base and peace-time armies. And there, too, sprawled
half-way across a camp bed is Mac. They yarn about old times,
Gallipoli days and after, laughing often, though sometimes in
affectionate, quieter tones they speak of a fallen comrade. It is
midnight, the ill-used candle has not many minutes of life to run, and
the desert wind bellows over the camp.
Three and a half years have passed since Mac found himself in the
comfortable security of an English hospital--far from unpleasant years,
during which the comradeship of his fellow-soldiers, and the kindness
of many friends have fully made good the sight Mac lost on the summit
of Chanak Bair. He has not lost touch with the men of the
Expeditionary Force during their long weary years in France and
Palestine, but has worked among them to the best of his limited powers.
And now this stormy night in March 1919 finds him again with his old
comrades of the Mounted Brigade, who, with a glorious campaign behind
them, are resting for a while on an island on Lake Timsah till a
transport at Suez is ready for them to embark. Mac has visited old
haunts and old friends in Egypt, and to-morrow he, too, goes on board
his ship at Suez, bound for home. Again there will be warm sleepy days
in the Red Sea, with delicate sunsets and cool nights, a few sunny
weeks in the tropics, some heavy weather, no doubt, south of Australia,
and then New Zealand.
Nearly five years of war, strange adventures and experiences of the
wider world have brought changes in the lives of those whose fate was
not to fall in the field, and have left them a little sadder and,
maybe, a little wiser. Mac's life must be vastly changed from the old
one, and for him there will be no more work with his dogs among the
sheep and cattle, and no more of many of the old things. But he has no
regrets. Least of all does he regret the day which first found him a
trooper of the Mounted Rifles. Others may forget the men who went
away, many never to return; but deep in the hearts of their comrades
will be fully valued those years of campaigning, when they knew the
unselfish sacrifices of comradeship, the careless courage, the humour,
and the affection of man.
Through these years Mac often thought of that wild winter day in the
bush when he and Charley, looking at the old Boer War pictures, had
resented the fact that they had been too young to join in it, and that
there was no, war for them to go to. Within a year Charley had been
killed, wounded three times in an attack at Cape Helles; and three
months later Mac himself had been incapacitated for life. Their
longing for war had been fulfilled with a vengeance. True, war had
brought them no good; but it had had many grand moments, power to
strengthen character and inspiration towards great thought, art and
unselfishness. Tragedy, crime and disease had also followed in its
train, though, for his part, Mac thought that some good must come of it
all.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of a Trooper, by Clutha N. Mackenzie