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ordinary comforts in the dark desolation of murder-
ously-disputed "rendi-sectors, were more to me than
all the despairing and war-weary civilians.

Just as it was beginning to get light I awoke from
an uneasy slumber. The storm had ceased and an
uncertain glimmer filtered faintly into the room
through the tall thinly-curtained window. In this
semi-twilight I saw a figure standing near the door.

I stared intently, wondering who on earth it could
be at that hour, and possibly surmising that one of
the patients was walking in his sleep. The face and
head were undiscernible, but I identified a pale buff-
coloured "British Warm" coat. Young Ormand al-
ways wore a coat like that up in the line, and I found
myself believing that Ormand was standing by the
door. But Ormand was killed six months ago, I
thought. Then the Theosophist3 who was always a
bad sleeper, turned over in his bed on the other side
of the room. I was sitting up, and I could see him
looking across at me. While I waited a long minute
I could hear his watch ticking on the table. The figure
by the door had vanished. "Did you see anyone come
into the room?" I asked. He hadn't seen anyone. Per-
haps I hadn't either. But it was an odd experience.


WHILE COMPOSING these apparently interminable
memoirs there have been moments when my
main problem was what to select from the "long
littleness"—or large untidiness—of life. Although a
shell-shock hospital might be described as an epitome
of the after-affects of the "battle of life" in its most
unmitigated form, nevertheless while writing about