I got rather a fright, as I lay dreaming here, half awake and half asleep, at six o'clock this morning. An orderly came along with a blue ticket and a big safety-pin, like those the Highlanders use in their petticoats, and pinned his label on the bottom of my counterpane.
"Hallo!" says I; "what's this? Are they putting me up for sale?"
Mentally, I began to describe myself for the catalogue. (How strong are the habits of civil life!) "One full-size, extra heavy Temporary Officer and Gentleman; right arm and left leg slightly chipped, the whole a little shop-worn, but otherwise as new. Will be sold absolutely without reserve to make room for new stock." (They have to keep as many beds as possible vacant in Clearing Stations, you know.)
The orderly just grinned and faded away like the Cheshire cat. A Sister came along shortly afterwards, and I asked her the meaning of my blue label.
"Oh! that," she said, very casually, "that's the evacuation card."
I am to be evacuated, like a pulverised trench, a redoubt that has become useless or untenable. Jolly, isn't it? Seriously, I was a good deal worried about this, until I had seen the M.O., because I had an idea that once one was evacuated out of the Divisional area, one was automatically struck off the strength of one's unit, in which case, goodness knows when, if ever, I should see my own "A" Company again. But the M.O. tells me it's all right, so long as one remains in France. One is only struck off on leaving France, and when that happens one can never be sure which Battalion of the Regiment one will return to. So there's nothing to worry about. It's only that these Clearing Stations have to keep plenty of vacant accommodation ready for cases fresh out of the line; and so fellows like me, who are supposed to require a bit more patching up than can be given in two or three days, have to be evacuated to one or other of the base hospitals. Hence the label, which makes of your Temporary Gentleman an "evacuation case."
It's uncertain when I shall be moved, or to which base, so I cannot give you a new address for letters. The generosity, the kindness, the skill, and the unwearying attentiveness and consideration shown one in this place could not possibly be improved on; but their official reticence in the matter of giving one any information regarding one's insignificant self, future movements, and so on, can only be described as godlike. I shall always associate it in my mind with a smile of ineffable benevolence (also rather godlike), as who should say, with inexhaustible patience, "There, there, my little man; there, there." And that's all. Perhaps it's good for us, taken, as medicine must be, with childlike trust and faith. We must hope so.
Come to think of it, there is a hint in the gentle air of this place—never torn by shot or shell, or penetrated by even the faintest odour of defunct Boches in No Man's Land—of a general conspiracy of reticence. It has infected mine own hitherto trusted batman (who presumes to chuckle as he writes these lines at my dictation), whose professed ignorance, regarding most points upon which I have this morning sought information, suggests that I have in the past consistently overrated his intelligence and general competence. It is clearly very desirable that I should get back to my Platoon as soon as possible.
Lying here at mine ease, I think a great deal; but of the quality of my thinking I fear there is little to be said that is favourable. Perhaps the medicine I take so trustfully has contained some of the soporific stuff of dreams, and that is why the pain in my leg has been so trifling since the first day here. I feel my thoughts stirring in my mind; but they move in a swaying, dreamy fashion, as though they were floating in, say golden syrup, and were not really interested in getting out of it. I wanted to tell you all about our push, but, do you know, though it was not very many days ago, it seems already extraordinarily remote, so far as the details are concerned, and I am hazy as to what I have told you and what I have not told.