Поющие в терновнике

           EverysheepleftaliveonDroghedacoulddropdeadifitsodesired,butthiswasaholiday.

           Evenafterthecarstoppedandtheygotout,noonemoved.Theylookedsodifferent.Twoyearsinthedeserthadruinedtheiroriginaluniforms;theyweredressedinanewissueofjunglegreen,andlookedlikestrangers.Foronething,theyseemedtohavegrowninches,whichindeedtheyhad;thelasttwoyearsoftheirdevelopmenthadoccurredfarfromDrogheda,andhadpushedthemwayabovetheirolderbrothers.Notboysanymorebutmen,thoughnotmenintheBob-Jack-Hughiemold;hardship,battleeuphoriaandviolentdeathhadmadesomethingoutofthemDroghedanevercould.TheNorthAfricansunhaddriedanddarkenedthemtorosymahogany,peeledawayeverylayerofchildhood.Yes,itwaspossibletobelievethesetwomenintheirsimpleuniforms,slouchhatspinnedabovetheirleftearswiththebadgeoftheAIFrisingsun,hadkilledfellowmen.Itwasintheireyes,blueasPaddy’sbutsadder,withouthisgentleness.

           "Myboys,myboys!"criedMrs.Smith,runningtothem,tearsstreamingdownherface.No,itdidn’tmatterwhattheyhaddone,howmuchtheyhadchanged;theywerestillherlittlebabiesshehadchanged;theywerestillherlittlebabiesshehadwashed,diapered,fed,whosetearsshehaddried,whosewoundsshehadkissedbetter.Onlythewoundstheyharborednowwerebeyondherpowertoheal.

           Theneveryonewasaroundthem,Britishreservebrokendown,laughing,crying,evenpoorFeepattingthemontheirbacks,tryingtosmile.AfterMrs.