Something has happened to them since they marched
away in khaki--something that has changed them. They're as completely
re-made as St. Paul was after he had had his vision of the opening
heavens on the road to Damascus. They've brought their vision back
with them to civilian life, despite the lost arms and legs which they
scarcely seem to regret; their souls still triumph over the body and
the temporal. As they hobble through the streets of London, they
display the same gay courage that was theirs when at zero hour, with a
fifty-fifty chance of death, they hopped over the top for the attack.
Often at the Front I have thought of Christ's explanation of his own
unassailable peace--an explanation given to his disciples at the Last
Supper, immediately before the walk to Gethsemane: "Be of good cheer,
I have overcome the world." Overcoming the world, as I understand it,
is overcoming self. Fear, in its final analysis, is nothing but
selfishness. A man who is afraid in an attack, isn't thinking of his
pals and how quickly terror spreads; he isn't thinking of the glory
which will accrue to his regiment or division if the attack is a
success; he isn't thinking of what he can do to contribute to that
success; he isn't thinking of the splendour of forcing his spirit to
triumph over weariness and nerves and the abominations that the Huns
are chucking at him. He's thinking merely of how he can save his
worthless skin and conduct his entirely unimportant body to a place
where there aren't any shells.
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