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IT is not impossible that on my way back to Clither-
land I compared my contemporary self with pre-
vious Sherstons who had reported themselves for duty

First the newly-gazetted young officer, who had
yet to utter his first word of command—anxious only
to become passably efficient for service at the front.
(How young I had been then—not much more than
two and half years ago!) Next came the survivor of
nine months in France (the trenches had taught him
a thing or two anyhow) less diffident, and inclined,
in a confused way, to ask the reason why everyone
was doing and dying under such soul-destroying con-
ditions. Thirdly arrived that somewhat incredible
mutineer who had made up his mind that if a single
human being could help to stop the War by making
a fuss, he was that man.

There they were, those three Sherstons; and here
was I—the inheritor of their dim renown. Reporting
for duty again, that was all it boiled down to, after
making a proper fool of myself instead of just carrying
on and taking the cushy job which I could have had
for the asking without anyone uttering a word against

Driving out to the camp in a taxi, however, I didn't
doubt that I should be received with heartiness—