"Sure, Mike,"--that was all. He'd have said the same if he'd been
asked whether he'd care to take a chance at Hell.
I have three vivid memories of that drive. The first, my own uneasy
sense that I was deserting. Frankly I didn't want to go out; few men
do when it comes to the point. The Front has its own peculiar
exhilaration, like big game-hunting, discovering the North Pole, or
anything that's dangerous; and it has its own peculiar reward--the
peace of mind that comes of doing something beyond dispute unselfish
and superlatively worth while. It's odd, but it's true that in the
front-line many a man experiences peace of mind for the first time and
grows a little afraid of a return to normal ways of life. My second
memory is of the wistful faces of the chaps whom we passed along the
road. At the unaccustomed sound of a car travelling in broad daylight
the Tommies poked their heads out of hiding-places like rabbits. Such
dirty Tommies! How could they be otherwise living forever on old
battlefields? If they were given time for reflection they wouldn't
want to go out; they'd choose to stay with the game till the war was
ended. But we caught them unaware, and as they gazed after us down the
first part of the long trail that leads back from the trenches to
Blighty, there was hunger in their eyes. My third memory is of
kindness.
You wouldn't think that men would go to war to learn how to be
kind--but they do. There's no kinder creature in the whole wide world
than the average Tommy.
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