Abbey deliberately emerged a column whose
eloquence was voiceless. Nurses in melancholy
grey wheeled incomplete men in invalid chairs or
blanket-covered stretchers down the foot-paths
between the lawns. Some crawled painfully after,
on crutches, or bent over like very old men who
can no longer measure their strength. The comparatively sound followed, filling Parliament
Square in ranks that awaited the word to march.
Policemen spoke roughly, forcing stragglers into
the ranks. This picture of a constable, guardian
of peace, handling a soldier, instrument of death,
created an incongruity that pointed the whole
illogical effrontery of war.
Again the bugles blared. Again the brown ranks stepped quickly out—two thousand men, nearly all of whom had been wounded or had suffered from the fevers of camp life. Again the procession of handsome, purposeful young faces moved swiftly by, with groping expressions, as if missing some one. The incomplete wrecks on the stretchers and in the chairs made futile movements, attempted a fragile cheer. The sun continued its brilliancy, untroubled by the smallest cloud. It was like the phantasmagoria of nightmare beneath a heaven crowded with white tempest. One wanted to fling up one's hands and burst into tears for the dead—and for those not yet dead.
