The journey to Hanover occupied two days and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, as I believe I was unconscious the whole time.

I do remember just before leaving being presented with a haversack from the French Red Cross Society, and it was full of things which were extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haversack still. I carried it wherever I went in Germany, and never allowed it to leave my possession.

On Sunday morning, September 17, the train pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were carried out and left for a time on the platform.

Some girls seemed to be busy giving refreshment to the wounded. A girl came to my stretcher, pulled down the blanket which covered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. I thought she was trying to feed me from some kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, and the coffee ran down my neck.

A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke to me very kindly.

I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if he was an officer.

He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter."

I think I became unconscious again. Rather unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour of the remark would have amused me.

CHAPTER XXI

ALIVE

It was the first night after my arrival at Hanover that I really fully recovered a state of consciousness.

Although I have recorded several incidents of the week which had just pa.s.sed, they were only occasional glimpses from which I would relapse again into unconsciousness, and it only comes back to me in a hazy sort of way, like dreams through a long night of sleep.

But I remember well the moment when I finally awoke and took in my surroundings. It was early in the morning. I seemed to have had frightful dreams; the horror of what I had pa.s.sed through had been a frightful nightmare, mocking at me, laughing at me, blowing me to pieces.

I turned over on my side. Strange place this sh.e.l.l-hole; it seemed very comfortable. What was this I was touching--a pillow, bedclothes.

Good G.o.d! I was in a bed! As my thoughts became clearer I lay perfectly still, almost in fear that any movement I might make would awaken me from this beautiful dream.

A long, long time ago something frightful had happened from which rescue was impossible. Yet, surely this was a bed.

Then I remembered the attack which had taken place over my body while I lay out in No Man's Land; of the sh.e.l.ls which had burst around me in violent protest to my presence. I could not possibly have escaped; I must be maimed.

Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon me: My G.o.d! I was alive!

I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and dance for joy. There was a bandage round my head: I was blind! Yes, I knew that, but there was nothing really the matter with me except that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed in comparison a luxury.

I was blind! But joy indescribable--what was that triviality--I was alive! alive!

Oh, my! I never knew before that life was so wonderful. Did other people understand what life was? No; you must be dead to understand what life was worth. I must tell every one how wonderful it all is.

But where was I? I could hear no guns--a bed? There were no beds at the front. I couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been true; otherwise I should have been able to see.

Where then could I be? Oh, G.o.d! Yes, I know--I am a prisoner of war!

But even this knowledge, which for the moment quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. I was saved! I was alive! No pain racked my limbs; no terror prodded my brain.

But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I was! How hungry! But what of that, I was alive!

And where was England--such a long, long way off. I must go there at once, this minute. No, I can't; I'm a prisoner.

How miserable some people are who have no right to be. They cannot know how wonderful life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then to come to life again.

I'm only blind! Just imagine it! What is that?--it's nothing at all, compared with life; and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind man.

I may not recover my sight, but that doesn't matter a bit, I will laugh at it, defy it. I will carry on as usual; I will overcome it and live the life that has been given back to me.

I will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a bed alive. Oh, G.o.d! I am grateful!

CHAPTER XXII

BLINDNESS

How reckless we are in referring to death! There are many people who would say they would prefer death to blindness; but the nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes the comparison between the finality of the one and the affliction of the other.

Those men, however, who have faced death in many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who have waited for its inevitable triumph, then slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men who have suffered these horrors and escaped without more than the loss of even the wonderful gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a lesser degree, holding the sanct.i.ty of life as a thing precious and sacred beyond all things.

Even the loss of G.o.d's great gift of sight ceases to become a burden or affliction in comparison with the indescribable joy of life s.n.a.t.c.hed from death.

There are men, and we know them by the score, who are constantly looking out on life through the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; whose conscience is an enemy to their own happiness; who look only on the dark side of life, made darker by their own disposition.

Such men, and you can pick them out by their looks and expression, who build an artificial wall of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of existence; these men who juggle with the joy of life until they feel they would sooner be dead, do not know, and do not realise the meaning of the life and death with which they trifle.

Let us think only of the glory of life; not of the trivial penalties which may be demanded of us in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify until we wonder whether the great gift of life is really worth while.

Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of these great gifts which we are fortunate enough to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense of grat.i.tude for the gifts we possess, and even an affliction becomes easy to bear.

Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the pride of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly struck blind!

And what are my feelings? Even such a seeming catastrophe does not appall me. I can no longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I am not depressed.

Am I not better off, after all, than he who was born blind? With the loss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation.

What is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being sightless from birth.

For thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my imagination can see it and take in the picture.

I can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their conversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.

I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and music, and understand what is going on without experiencing that feeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has always been blind.

And the greatest gift of all, my sense of grat.i.tude, that after pa.s.sing through death, I am alive!