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he stood shuffling his feet to try and keep them warm.
He hadn't explained how he'd worked the chances
out, but he was always fond of a formula. Then the
train began to move and he climbed awkwardly into
his compartment. "Give my love to old Joe when
you get to the First Battalion/' was my final effort at
heartiness. He nodded with a crooked smile. Going
out for the third time was a rotten business and his
face showed it.

"I ought to be going with him," I thought, know-
ing that I could have got G.S. at my last Board if Td
had the guts to ask for it. But how could one ask for it
when there was a hope of getting a few more days with
the Cheshire and the weather was so perishing cold
out in France? "What a queer mixture he is," I
thought, as I wandered absent-mindedly away from
the station. Nothing could have been more cheerless
than the rumbling cobbled street by the Docks, with
dingy warehouses shutting out the dregs of daylight
and an ash-coloured sky which foretold some more

I remember going back to the hut that night after
Mess. There was snow on the ground, and the shut-
tered glare and muffled din of the explosive works
seemed more than usually grim. Sitting by the stove
I began to read a magazine which David had left be-
hind. It was a propagandist weekly containing trans-
lations from the Foreign Press. A Copenhagen paper
said: "The sons of Europe are being crucified on the
barbed wire because the misguided masses are shout-
ing for it. They do not know what they do, and the
statesmen wash their hands. They dare not deliver
them from their martyr's death. . . ." Was this really
the truth, I wondered; wild talk like that was new to
me. I thought of Dick Tiltwood, and how he used to