On Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of water, I was removed from St. Quentin and placed in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I was told it was a splendidly appointed train, with every modern appliance.
The journey to Hanover occupied two days and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, as I believe I was unconscious the whole time.
I do remember just before leaving being presented with a haversack from the French Red Cross Society, and it was full of things which were extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haversack still. I carried it wherever I went in Germany, and never allowed it to leave my possession.
On Sunday morning, September 17, the train pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were carried out and left for a time on the platform.
Some girls seemed to be busy giving refreshment to the wounded. A girl came to my stretcher, pulled down the blanket which covered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. I thought she was trying to feed me from some kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, and the coffee ran down my neck.
A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke to me very kindly.
I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if he was an officer.
He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter."
I think I became unconscious again. Rather unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour of the remark would have amused me.