into it all, to get to work--and now . . . we're all sick of it . . .
it's rotten, absolutely rotten; everything. It's a rotten war. Wonder
what they are doing now at home . . ."




CHAPTER XVIII


TWO MEN RETURN


I shall never forget those two little figures coming into camp.

They were both trembling like aspen leaves. One had ginger hair, and a
crop of ginger beard bristled on his chin. Their eyes were hollow and
sunken, and glittered and roamed unmeaningly with the glare of
insanity. They glanced with a horrible suspicion at their pals, and
knew them not. The one with the ginger stubble muttered to himself.
Their clothes were torn with brambles, and prickles from thorn-bushes
still clung round their puttees. A pitiful sight. They tottered along,
keeping close together and avoiding the others. An awful tiredness
weighed upon them; they dragged themselves along. Their lips were
cracked and swollen and dry. They had lost their helmets, and the sun
had scorched and peeled the back of their necks. Their hair was matted
and full of sand. But the fear which looked out of those glinting eyes
was terrible to behold.

We gave them "Oxo," and the medical officer came and looked at them.