That doesn't matter--the
point is that the conviction was daily strengthening that I was needed
out there. The thought was grotesque that I could ever make a
soldier--I whose life from the day of leaving college had been almost
wholly sedentary. In fights at school I could never hurt the other boy
until by pain he had stung me into madness. Moreover, my idea of war
was grimly graphic; I thought it consisted of a choice between
inserting a bayonet into some one else's stomach or being yourself the
recipient. I had no conception of the long-distance, anonymous killing
that marks our modern methods, and is in many respects more truly
awful. It's a fact that there are hosts of combatants who have never
once identified the bodies of those for whose death they are
personally responsible. My ideas of fighting were all of hand-to-hand
encounters--the kind of bloody fighting that rejoiced the hearts of
pirates. I considered that it took a brutal kind of man to do such
work. For myself I felt certain that, though I got the upper-hand of a
fellow who had tried to murder me, I should never have the callousness
to return the compliment. The thought of shedding blood was
nauseating.
It was partly to escape from this atmosphere of tension that we left
London, and set out on a motor-trip through England. This trip had
figured largely in our original plans before there had been any
thought of war. We wanted to re-visit the old places that had been the
scenes of our family-life and childhood.
Pages:
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66