* *
Of course his story had to be about the war; there are no other
stories nowadays. And so he wrote of English soldiers who, in the dusk
on a field of France, faced the sullen mass of the oncoming Huns. They
were few against fearful odds, but, as they sent the breech-bolt home
and aimed and fired, they became aware that others fought beside them.
Down the air came cries to St. George and twanging of the bow-string;
the old bowmen of England had risen at England's need from their
graves in that French earth and were fighting for England.
* *
He said that he made up that story by himself, that he sat down and
wrote it out of his head. But others knew better. It must really have
happened. There was, I remember, a clergyman of good credit who told
him that he was clean mistaken; the archers had really and truly risen
up to fight for England: the tale was all up and down the front.
For my part I had thought that he wrote out of his head; I had seen
him at the detestable job of doing it. I myself have hated this
business of writing ever since I found out that it was not so easy as
it looks, and I can always spare a little sympathy for a man who is
driving a pen to the task of putting words in their right places.
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