In what suburb, in what town (it seemed to have been hundreds of years ago that it had happened), and what part of Australasia could it be that a peaceful citizen, walking a darkened street, homeward bound, could be violently assailed, near the resting-place of its harmless sleeping dead, by an awful uncanny horror descending from the black unknown? Was I cursed, haunted, bewitched—or what? Then there came to me the vague memory of a friend, one whom I familiarly knew as “Billo,” and in some way associated with my terrible, mysterious experience. But somehow it didn’t seem to fit in with the slowly gathering evidence of my returning senses, for it seemed to me that “Billo” had long before quitted suburban civilisation for some great adventure—perhaps—yes, it was a war somewhere—in which I, too, had later resolved to follow his example and do my share. Then how came it that this terrible experience had befallen me in the midst of the enjoyment and comforts of civilisation?
I had a positive though hazy memory of a comfortable, warm room, pleasant drinks, cheery conversation; “Billo” and his companion, the latter a rough, kindly sort of being—no, it could not have been a woman; besides, “Billo” was a bachelor. I remembered that distinctly.
Suddenly it became clear to me, and I remembered a silent, rugged man facetiously dubbed “’Enery” by my friend—a kindly chap, of very few words, with whom I had not been long acquainted. Where had “Billo” picked him up? There also came before me the memory of a small, dilapidated man or youth, dark complexioned; somehow also attached to “Billo.” His name was—yes, that was it.... Who the deuce was “Razzy”? My mind here became dazed, and speculation drifted off into a confusion of reflections: that “Razzy” was a foreigner of some sort, living with us under the same conditions, yet in some way very different and in a degree inferior; that the hour at which I left my friend “Billo’s” home and his inexplicable associates was quite early in the night—perhaps only nine-thirty. This latter fact seemed to linger in my mind, for presently—with a hazy conviction that there were sure to be other pedestrians abroad on a suburban street at that hour—I heard my own voice asking no one in particular: “Was there anyone else there?”
It came as no surprise to hear a man’s rough voice reply:
“Only a Maltese—at least, we think he was. He was blown to smithereens. But don’t let ’em see you talking too much, mate.”
The room seemed to rock. I opened my eyes, and with difficulty caught sight of the speaker. He was in khaki and wore an A.M.C. badge on his arm. I was on a hospital ship.
“Then that must have been poor ‘Razzy,’” I muttered at last. Before my mind’s eye there seemed to unfold a dissolving scene. The cosy rooms of my friend “Billo” became a dug-out in a hillside, lit by a slush lamp made from bacon fat. “Billo” and his rugged, silent companion were wearing the familiar time-tattered uniform that I knew so well ages and ages ago (actually it was five days back); the door through which I had passed into the unpleasant night was an oilsheet tied down to keep the weather out; and the frequent rumbling roar was not that of a passing suburban train which I was timing myself to catch. On the contrary, it was the intervals between that sound which interested me. For each of those rushes past the door of my friend’s dug-out was a hurtling Turkish shell, and I wanted to make my escape at a reasonably safe moment. Also, the place where “they” chiefly lobbed was the cemetery at the foot of the rugged track (I had dreamed of it as the unpaved footpath of a new suburb), where rest a score or more game Australian lads who had taken part in the landing on Gallipoli. The unfortunate “Razzy,” by the way, was but one of a gang of Maltese labourers brought by the authorities, at a later and safer period, to help in the landing of stores from the transports in the bay at Anzac. He had become friendly with my luxury-loving friend “Billo,” and, in gratitude for various kindly considerations, was willing to provide the hot water to make our hot-rum drinks on that memorable night at “Billo’s” station on our right wing. (I was quartered miles away on the extreme left.)
So it was near the cemetery that the unexpected shell got me; and apparently “Razzy” also, who was returning to his camp a hundred yards away. There seemed something so droll about the whole strange illusion that, although in a state of dazed depression, I might have laughed but for an indescribable pain in my left side. I saw that my left arm was supported on something and lay above the bedclothes and seemed very heavy.
“Feel comfortable?” said the A.M.C. man.
“Yes, except for the pain in my left hand,” I answered.