“Sit down,” beamed the C.O.

We sat down, crossed our legs, and tried to appear at our ease, and languid; as became officers.

“How old are you?” the Colonel asked Doe.

Doe hesitated, wondering whether to perjure himself and say “Twenty.”

“Eighteen, sir,” he admitted, obviously ashamed.

“And you, Ray?”

“Eighteen, sir,” said I, feeling Doe’s companion in guilt.

“Splendid, perfectly splendid!” replied the Colonel.  “Eighteen, by Jove!  You’ve timed your lives wonderfully, my boys.  To be eighteen in 1914 is to be the best thing in England.  England’s wealth used to consist in other things.  Nowadays you boys are the richest thing she’s got.  She’s solvent with you, and bankrupt without you.  Eighteen, confound it!  It’s a virtue to be your age, just as it’s a crime to be mine.  Now, look here”—­the Colonel drew up his chair, as if he were going to get to business—­“look here.  Eighteen years ago you were born for this day.  Through the last eighteen years you’ve been educated for it.  Your birth and breeding were given you that you might officer England’s youth in this hour.  And now you enter upon your inheritance.  Just as this is the day in the history of the world so yours is the generation.  No other generation has been called to such grand things, and to such crowded, glorious living.  Any other generation at your age would be footling around, living a shallow existence in the valleys, or just beginning to climb a slope to higher things.  But you”—­here the Colonel tapped the writing-table with his forefinger—­“you, just because you’ve timed your lives aright, are going to be transferred straight to the mountain-tops.  Well, I’m damned.  Eighteen!”

I remember how his enthusiasm radiated from him and kindled a responsive excitement in me.  I had entered his room a silly boy with no nobler thought than a thrill in the new adventure on which I had so suddenly embarked.  But, as this fatherly old poet, touched by England’s need and by the sight of two boys entering his room, so fresh and strong and ready for anything, broke into eloquence, I saw dimly the great ideas he was striving to express.  I felt the brilliance of being alive in this big moment; the pride of youth and strength.  I felt Aspiration surging in me and speeding up the action of my heart.  I think I half hoped it would be my high lot to die on the battlefield.  It was just the same glowing sensation that pervaded me one strange evening when, standing outside the baths at Kensingtowe, I first awoke to the joy of conscious life.

“D’you see what I’m driving at?” asked the old Colonel.

“Rather!” answered Doe, with eagerness.  Turning towards him as he spoke, I saw by the shining in his brown eyes that the poet in him had answered to the call of the old officer’s words.  His aspiration as well as mine was inflamed.  Doe was feeling great.  He was picturing himself, no doubt, leading a forlorn hope into triumph, or fighting a rearguard action and saving the British line.  The heroic creature was going to be equal to the great moment and save England dramatically.