But it would be dishonest not to confess that there was
something gratifying about it too. It was the cry of the Army, always
loyal to the Army. These heroic bundles of bandages, lifting wild and
unshaven faces from their pillows, hailed _me_ (a wretched creature who
had never heard a gun go off) as one of their comrades! My mate and I,
as we adjusted our stretcher at a cot's side, and braced ourselves
against the weight of the patient, winked covertly at one another. "A
nasty one for the Bluebottles!" he said. And it was.
All the same I seize this opportunity of offering my homage to the
Bluebottles. They have done--are still doing--their bit, and that right
nobly. Thousands of British soldiers have cause to bless them and also
to be thankful for the existence of that great voluntary institution,
the London Ambulance Column.
* * * * *
When at last the train had been emptied and the ultimate stretcher was
_en route_ for the hospital, our party gathered once more at the top of
the stair, lined up, and was glanced-over by the corporal lest any man
had seized the opportunity to play truant.
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