the troops were spread over the Downs. Heaven
and earth were equally mysterious and inscrutable.
He inserted himself cautiously into the aperture of
the shelter, where Resmith already lay asleep, and,
having pushed back his cap, arranged his right arm
for a pillow. The clammy ground had been covered
with dry horse-litter. As soon as he was settled
the noise of the rain ceaselessly pattering on the
waterproof became important. He could feel the
chill of the wind on his feet, which, with Resmith’s,
projected beyond the shelter. The conditions were
certainly astounding. Yet, despite extreme fatigue,
he was not depressed. On the contrary he was
well satisfied. He had accomplished something.
He had been challenged, and had accepted the challenge,
and had won. The demeanour of the mess when he
got back to the camp clearly indicated that he had
acquired prestige. He was the man who had organized
an exhaustive search for the convoy and had found
the convoy in the pitchy blackness. He was the
man who had saved the unit from an undeserved shame.
The mess had greeted him with warm food. Perhaps
he had been lucky—the hazard of a lighted
cigarette in the darkness! Yes, but luck was
in everything. The credit was his, and men duly
gave it to him, and he took it. He thought almost
kindly of Colonel Hullocher, against whom he had measured
himself. The result of the match was a draw, but
he had provided the efficient bully with matter for
reflection. After all, Hullocher was right.
When you were moving a Division, jobs had to be done,
possible or impossible; human beings had to be driven;
the supernatural had to be achieved. And it had
been! That which in the morning existed at Wimbledon
now existed on the Downs. There it lay, safe
and chiefly asleep, in defiance of the weather and
of accidents and miscarriage! And the next day
it would go on.
The vast ambitions of the civilian had sunk away.
He thought, exalted as though by a wonderful discovery:
“There is something in this Army business!”
He ardently desired to pursue it further. He
ardently desired sleep and renewal so that he might
rise afresh and pursue it further. What he had
done and been through was naught, less than naught.
To worry about physical discomforts was babyish.
Inviting vistas of knowledge, technical attainment,
experience, and endurance stretched before him, illuminating
the night. His mind dwelt on France, on Mons,
on the idea of terror and cataclysm. And it had
room too for his wife and children. He had had
no news of them for over twenty-four hours; and he
had broken his resolve to write to Lois every day;
he had been compelled to break it. But in the
morning, somehow, he would send a telegram and he would
get one.
“If it’s true the French Government has
left Paris—”
The nocturnal young ducks were passing the shelter.
“And who says it’s true? Who told
you, I should like to know?”