with an eye to safeguarding myself against "what
people would say".
When I remarked to Tyrrell that "people couldn't
say I did it so as to avoid going back to France if I had
been given a job in England", he pulled me up short.
"What people say doesn't matter. Your own belief
in what you are doing is the only thing that counts."
Knowing that he was right, I felt abashed; but I
couldn't help regretting*that my second decoration
had failed to materialize. It did not occur to me that
a Bar to one's Military Cross was a somewhat inade-
quate accretion to one's qualifications for affirming
that the War was being deliberately prolonged by
those who had the power to end it. Except for a
bullet-hole in my second best tunic, all that I'd got for
my little adventure in April consisted of a gilt-edged
card on which the Divisional General had inscribed
his congratulations and thanks. This document was
locally referred to as "one of the Whincop's Bread
Cards", and since it couldn't be sewn on to my tunic
I did my best to feel that it was better than nothing.
Anyhow, on a glaring hot morning I started to
catch a train to Cambridge. I was intending to stay
a night there, for it would be nice to have a quiet look
round and perhaps go up to Grantchester in a canoe.
Admittedly, next month was bound to be ghastly;
but it was no good worrying about that. . . . Had I
enough money on me? Probably not; so I decided to
stop and change a cheque at my bank in Old Broad
Street. Changing a cheque was always a comforting
performance. "Queer thing, having private means,"
I thought. "They just hand you out the money as if
it was a present from the Bank Manager.3' It was
funny, too, to think that I was still drawing my Army
pay. But it was the WQng moment for such humdrum