It creeps in like a great snake. There is nobody to tell you
whether this is your train or not, but you take a chance and climb into
a compartment which is pitch-dark.
HEARS AMERICAN VOICE
You have a ticket that calls for first-class military compartment, but
you climbed into the first open door you saw, and didn't know and
didn't care whether it was first, second, third, or tenth class just so
you got on your way. Your eyes soon became accustomed to the darkness
and you discerned two or three forms in the seat opposite you. You
wondered if they were French, Italians, Belgians, English, Australians,
Canadians, Moroccans, Algerians, or Americans. It was too dark to see,
but suddenly you heard a familiar voice saying, "Gosh, I wish I was
back in little ole New York," and you made a grab in the darkness for
that lad's hand.
All during your trip no trainman appears. You are left to your own
sweet will at nights in the war zone when you are on a train. No
stations are announced. You are supposed to have sense enough to know
where you are going, and to have gumption enough to get off without
either being assisted or told to do so. The assumption, I suppose, is
that anybody who travels in the war zone knows where he is going.
Personally, I felt like the American phrase, "I don't know where I'm
going but I'm on the way," and I tried to jump off at two or three
towns before I got to my own destination, but the American soldiers had
been that way before on their way to the trenches, and wouldn't let me
off at the wrong place.
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