Like the pale-faced chap in the tap-room at Stratford, I had
fleeting glimpses of myself being shot as a deserter.
At this point something happened which at least proved to me that I
had made moral progress. I'd finished my packing and was doing a last
rush round, when I caught in large lettering on a newsboard the
heading, "PEACE RUMOURED." Before I realised what had happened I was
crying. I was furious with disappointment. If the war should end
before I got there--! On buying a paper I assured myself that such a
disaster was quite improbable. I breathed again. Then the reproachful
memory came of another occasion when I had been scared by a headline,
_"Boulogne Has Fallen."_ I had been scared lest I might be needed at
that time; now I was panic-stricken lest I might arrive too late.
There was a change in me; something deep-rooted had happened. I got to
thinking about it. On that motor-trip through England I had considered
myself in the light of a philanthropist, who might come to the help of
the Allies and might not. Now all I asked was to be considered worthy
to do my infinitesimal "bit." I had lost all my old conceits and
hallucinations, and had come to respect myself in a very humble
fashion not for what I was, but for the cause in which I was prepared
to fight. The knowledge that I belonged to the physically fit
contributed to this saner sense of pride; before I wore a uniform I
had had the morbid fear that I might not be up to standard.
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