A Nightmare

Kai Tiaki : the journal of the nurses of New Zealand, Volume VIII, Issue 3, 1 July 1915, Page 154

A Nightmare

Efemera

By

No one, so far as I know, has yet been able to analyse the stuff which dreams are made of. Personally, lam inclined to believe that the solution lies somewhere between over-eating and nervous strain, but I am entirely unable to determine whether the curious nightmare which galloped through my room last night was the legitimate descendant of too hearty a dinner or the result of a surfeit of extra war edition. With no warning I found myself in the midst of a stricken countryside : broken fences, trampled crops, deep-rutted roads. Against the wind-swept horizon rose eddies of smoke and flame from burning villages. The land was deserted, not a living being in sight, and dusk was falling. As I crouched, sheltering against a bank behind some bushes, a horseman rode up. The strangeness of his accoutrements struck even my unaccustomed eyes at once. A Cossack ! said I to myself, and then dismissed the thought, for I knew that I was in Prance. But if not a Cossack, what then, in the name of Heaven ? A fringe of little pots and packets, dangled from his saddle, and among them a bundle of what I took to be antimacassars. He seemed to wear a brown woolly wig under his cap, a knitted chestprotector hung over his manly bosom , mittens covered his hands, a sewing-case or handy-bag and a first-aid outfit slung from a strap bumped against his back. His horse had ear-guards and a fly -net.

Two saucepans, balanced by a tea and luncheon-basket, decorated his saddle. On his lance were impaled a bath-sponge and a cake of antiseptic soap. It was too dark to see more, but I was no longer afraid. I knew the warrior : who could he be but my old friend, the White Knight, in modern guise ? I slipped from my cover as he dismounted, and advanced towards him. ' What are yer bringin 3 me now ? " he asked in aggrieved suspicion, as I approached. " Not another bloomin' comfort, I 'ope." It was not the greeting I expected, but times have changed. I was able to reassure him, but his discontent vented itself in a running commentary on his equipment as he proceeded to make himself and his mount comfortable. He tore off his mittens and removed his cap, showing the wig to be no more than a knitted helmet. " Tell yer what it is," he growled, "the women think they're doin' us a kindness, but Lord, 'ow they do mess a man up ! This thing now- — it mikes yer 'ead 'ot an 3 it keeps yer from 'earing what's goin' on — 'ceptin' always artillery fire. It ain't no bloomin' use that I can think of. An' these 'ere pots — they're full of ointment or something which I ain't never yet 'ad no time nor opportunity to use, not 'aving 'ad my boots off for a week, an' the socks without 'eels which is under 'em do lump

up something cruel. Why can't they knit 'eels to 'em if they will mike socks ? Don't they know 'ow ? My missis what's at 'ome she can knit a sock as '11 fit, an' she can mike shirts too — a shirt-maker she was by trade an' out of work now. Why don't they pay 'er to mike them instead of sending us shirts what won't button proper with one sleeve up an' the other down an' what comes apart if yer looks at 'em 'ard ? " He held up a strange grey garment, and shook it wrathfully. ' This 'ere, now. What's the good of night -shirts to us, out 'ere ? And all prickles as mikes yer flesh turn to touch it ? An crowshay mats to put under yer saddle ? Oo's got the time to think of things like that ? " With supreme disgust he opened a small biscuit tin. " An' what's in 'ere ? A lot of foul old pipes — not a new one among 'em nor an ounce of clean bacca. ... I arsks yer, what's the bloomin' use of these ? Do they think we want their old pipes % Not likely. 'Ere I am loaded up like a tinker's cart an' all of us just as bad. . . . As if we 'adn't enough to carry in the ordinary way. I'd like to 'ave the lot of 'em out 'ere for 'arf a day just to see what fightin's really like

... If they must do something, why don't they look after the missis an' the kids at 'ome, an' let us know they're doin' it ? — • it 'ould ease some of us a lot. Why don't they let us know as 'ow they'll find jobs for all of us when we gets 'ome ? 'Stead of which they all wants to come out with the Red Cross — to the front, if yer please, to tie us up. 'Eaven 'elp us if we falls into their 'ands is what I say. Nurses is all right — they knows their jobs, but these other women if they was to see a field 'ospital after an action they'd faint away in 'eaps. Fat lot of good they'd be. When it comes to that, they're a long sight better out of 'arm's way, a-loading of us up with trumpery which we can throw away. May be it'll do the Germans some good. I'm a-lightening of my load now. . . ." His voice seemed to grow fainter, and without warning he vanished, leaving the ground covered with a motley collection of boxes, pots, and garments. I picked up the nearest one, the nightshirt so scornfully described, prickly in texture with crooked sleeves. It seemed unaccountably large and heavy, so much so that I bent for closer inspection, and perceived, by the sunlight streaming through the window, that it was my own blanket.

(With apologies to

"The Bystander.")