Thus he carried on, seeing
things dimly. And what is sometimes called ``the roar of battle,''
those a?rial voices that snarl and moan and whine and rage at
soldiers, had grown dimmer too. It all seemed further away, and
littler, as far things are. He still heard the bullets: there is
something so violently and intensely sharp in the snap of passing
bullets at short ranges that you hear them in deepest thought, and
even in dreams. He heard them, tearing by, above all things else. The
rest seemed fainter and dimmer, and smaller and further away.
He did not think he was very badly hit, but nothing seemed to matter
as it did a while ago. Yet he carried on.
And then he opened his eyes very wide and found he was back in London
again in an underground train. He knew it at once by the look of it.
He had made hundreds of journeys, long ago, by those trains. He knew
by the dark, outside, that it had not yet left London; but what was
odder than that, if one stopped to think of it, was that he knew
exactly where it was going. It was the train that went away out into
the country where he used to live as a boy.
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