On the right of the British line

by Gilbert Nobbs

The idea of getting back to life after suffering so many deaths seemed very unreasonable. My sensations were those of one who had awakened to find himself buried alive. To be alive at all was cheating death, which held me firmly in its grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly for the end.

The life of the world seemed so far away from me. My family, my home, my friends and scenes that I used to know so well seemed in a misty past, a long, long way away—a different age.

After all, it did not matter very much. It was all so very long ago. It had all happened long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I was now a memory.

Now, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. I will say, further, that I was never so clear-headed in my life. I had little power in my limbs. My brain was never more calm and calculating and indifferent to the death which I knew was at hand.

It was not nerve, because I had none. It had nothing to do with the question of pluck or cowardice. It was simply the state of the brain before its last kick. I had ceased to resist my fate; I accepted it. I was not dead yet—but I was to die there, and that was to be my grave.

I began to think out calmly in what way my life would flicker out, and I concluded that it would come as a result of my wound during a period of unconsciousness, or by the slower process of thirst, starvation, and exposure. In the latter case I should probably have violent spasms or struggles. I had better prepare myself.

I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. There was a pile of loose earth, which stuck against my body awkwardly. With my hands and feet I scooped it out until my body lay comfortably in a hollow, with the loose earth forming a sort of bed. In doing this I found a water-bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. There was only a drain in it, which I drank, and threw the bottle away.

I next searched my pockets for food and found a small crust, the remains of what had been my food the day before the attack. I placed this carefully in my pocket for use at the time when I should experience the final pangs of starvation. My own water-bottle still contained about half a pint of water. I placed this on the ground, close to where my face would be, so that I could clutch it readily.

These preparations over, my brain began to get tired. There was nothing else to be done; everything was ready. I would lie down now and wait for the end. I laid my head on the ground, using the side of the shell-hole as a pillow.

I was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed almost like a bed. After all, I was a lucky fellow to be able to die in a comfortable way like this. I wondered how long it would really be—days more, perhaps, but still I could wait. Yes, the life of the world was a very long way away; after all, it did not matter.