"Guess you don't--they'd call this clover," said a sleepy voice.
Looking our oddest we trudged off in the gloom and wet of next morning,
leaping across rivulets of water which hurtled down the roads. West's
arm was worse, Willett was recovering from a bad chill, Mawson had not
yet got a decent night's rest for a week--every one longed for a house.
"Dobra Dan," said a voice. It was the friend of the wounded man we had
bound up the first day.
"Where is your friend?" we asked.
"I lost him," he answered.
We climbed for three hours then waited, blocked. A military motor had
stuck deeply in the mud and the wheels were buzzing round uselessly, so
we helped to dig her out. Every one's inside cried for breakfast, and
when at last we found a swampy plain, Whatmough and Cutting flung
themselves upon an old tree trunk and cut it up for firewood.
We always had "company" to these picnic meals, hungry soldiers, mere
ragbags held together by bones, crept around us and learnt for the first
time the joys of curry and cocoa.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328