A.M.C. It was seldom our custom to enter the hospital trains. An
unwritten law decreed that Bluebottles only should enter the train: the
R.A.M.C. limited themselves to carrying work outside, on the platform
and stair. But on this occasion the supply of Bluebottles had, for the
moment, run short, and our party took a turn at going up the gangways
and evacuating the van-wards. As it happened, I and my mate on the
stretcher were the first khaki-wearers to invade that particular
van-ward. And as we steered our stretcher in at the door and down the
aisle of cots a shout arose from the wounded lying there: "Here are some
real soldiers!"
It was too bad. It was base ingratitude to the devoted band of
Bluebottles who had, up till that instant, been toiling at the
evacuation of the ward--and who, as I chanced to know, had been up all
the previous night, carrying stretchers at Paddington and Charing Cross,
while _we_ slept cosily. But--well, there it was. "Here are some real
soldiers!" Khaki greeted khaki--simultaneously spurning the mere
amateur, the civilian. I could have blushed for the injustice of that
naive cry.
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