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had still got my skimpy tunic to remind me that I
had signed away my freedom. Outside the doctor's
house where I was lodged, another stormy December
afternoon was closing in with torrents of rain. Would
it ever stop raining, I wondered. And would my right
arm ever be rid of this infernal splint? Anyhow, my
December face matched the weather in exactly the
same way as it had done in August and September.

The Yeomanry were now in a camp of huts close
to the town. Every Saturday Bob Jenner or one of
the others came to see me; while they were with me
my ardour revived, but when I was alone again I
found it more and more difficult to imagine myself
sharing the discomforts which they described so light-
heartedly. But I had only exchanged one prison for
another, and after reading about the War in the
newspapers for nine weeks, the "faith and fire"
within me seemed almost extinguished. My arm
had refused to join up, and I had spent more than an
hour under an anaesthetic while the doctor screwed
a silver plate on to the bone. The fracture wobbled
every time I took a deep breath, and my arm was
very much inflamed. When I was out for a walk with
my arm in a sling I felt a fraud, because the people
I passed naturally assumed that I had been to the
Front. When my squadron commander came to see
me I couldn't help feeling that he suspected me of not
getting well on purpose. I still found it impossible
to imagine myself as an officer. It was only half an
hour's walk to the Yeomanry camp, but I could never
get myself to go up there.

The weather had been as depressing as the war
news. Like everybody else I eagerly assimilated the
optimistic reports in the papers about Russian
victories in East Prussia, and so on. "The Russian