I could see the earnestness in his
face. "I feel about it this way," he said, "If I'm out there, I'm just
one more. A lot of chaps out there are jolly tired; if I was there,
I'd be able to give some chap a rest."
That was love; for a man, if he told the truth, would say, "I hate the
Front." Yet most of us, if you ask us, "Do you want to go back?" would
answer, "Yes, as fast as I can." Why? Partly because it's difficult to
go back, and in difficulty lies a challenge; but mostly because we
love the chaps. Not any particular chap, but all the fellows out there
who are laughing and enduring.
Last time I met the most wounded man who ever came out of France
alive, it was my turn to be in hospital. He came to visit me there,
and told me that he'd been all through the Vimy racket and was again
going back.
"But how did you manage to get into the game again?" I asked. "I
thought the doctors wouldn't pass you."
He laughed slily. "I didn't ask the doctors. If you know the right
people, these things can always be worked."
More than half of the bravery at the Front is due to our love of the
folks we have left behind. We're proud of them; we want to give them
reason to be proud of us. We want them to share our spirit, and we
don't want to let them down. The finest reward I've had since I became
a soldier was when my father, who'd come over from America to spend my
ten days' leave with me in London, saw me off on my journey back to
France.
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