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than I had done the night before. I am beginning to
feel that a man can write too much about his own feel-
ings, even when "what he felt like" is the nucleus of his
narrative. Nevertheless I cannot avoid a short sum-
mary of my sensations while on the way to Liverpool.
I began by shutting my eyes and refusing to think at
all; but this effort didn't last long. I tried looking
out of the window; but the sunlit fields only made me
long to be a munching cow. I remembered my first
journey to Clitherland in May 1915. I had been
nervous then—diffident about my ability to learn how
to be an officer. Getting out to the Front had been an
ambition rather than an obligation, and I had aimed
at nothing more than to become a passably efficient
second-lieutenant, Pleasantly conscious of my new
uniform and anxious to do it credit, I had felt (as
most of us did in those days) as if I were beginning a
fresh and untarnished existence. Probably I had
travelled by this very train. My instant mental
transition from that moment to this (all intervening
experience excluded) caused me a sort of vertigo.
Alone in that first-class compartment, I shut my eyes
and asked myself out loud what this thing was which
I was doing; and my mutinous act suddenly seemed
outrageous and incredible. For a few minutes I com-
pletely lost my nerve. But the express train was carry-
ing me along; I couldn't stop it, any more than I
could cancel my statement. And when the train
pulled up at Liverpool I was merely a harassed auto-
maton whose movements were being manipulated by
a typewritten manifesto. To put it plainly, I felt "like
nothing on earth" while I was being bumped and
jolted out to the Gamp in a ramshackle taxi.

It was about three o'clock when the taxi passed the
gates of Brotherhood's Explosive Works and drew up

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