to the north until it was lost in a darkness relieved
only by red and green signal lamps, close to the
ground, vague in a slight mist, like will-o'-the-wisps.
No one reached the quay without a catechism from the soldiers and gendarmes at the barriers. A khaki clad figure stood with the others—the first Tommy—the extreme rear-guard of the British lines.
He grinned, struggling with what he conceived to be the American idiom.
"Give my regards to the boys—"
The train, crowded with poilus and officers, threatened to be insufferably stuffy. Therefore, until the last moment, I paced up and down the murky platform, hearing subdued voices which chanted popular army airs, oppressed by the wailing notes of an accordeon. Through an open window I had a glimpse of the player. His eyes were upraised. His face was dull with mental pain. His hands on the accordeon swayed apart and came together with slow, caressing gestures. His companions, in dirty blue overcoats, sat facing each other on parallel benches beneath a dim light. They swayed unconsciously in rhythm with the music, muttering inaudibly snatches of words. Eyes and cars were challenged by a sense of despair nearly voluptuous.
