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in the trenches every man bore his own burden; the
Sabbath was not made for man; and if a man laid
down his life for his friends it was no part of his
military duties. To kill an enemy was an effective
action; to bring in one of our own wounded was praise-
worthy, but unrelated to our war-aims. The Brigade
chaplain did not exhort us to love our enemies. He
was content to lead off with the hymn "How sweet
the name of Jesus sounds"!

I mention this war-time dilemma of the Churches
because my own mind was in rather a muddle at that
time. I went up to the trenches with the intention of
trying to kill someone. It was my idea of getting a
bit of my own back. I did not say anything about it
to anyone; but it was this feeling which took me out
patrolling the mine-craters whenever an opportunity
offered itself. It was a phase in my war experienceó
no more irrational than the rest of the proceedings,
I suppose; it was an outburst of blind bravado which
now seems paltry when I compare it with the be-
haviour of an officer like Julian Durley, who did
everything that was asked of him as a matter of

Lent, as I said before, was not observed by us. But
Barton got somewhere near observing it one evening.
We had just returned to our dug-out after the twilight
ritual of "standing-to". The rations had come up,
and with them the mail. After reading a letter from
his wife he looked at me and said: "O Kangar, how I
wish I were a cathedral organist!" (I was known as
"the Kangaroo" in "C" company.) His remark,
which had no connection with any religious feeling,
led us on to pleasant reminiscences of cathedral closes.
Nothing would be nicer, we thought, than to be
sauntering back, after Evensong, to one of those snug