“I do not think they will sign,” I replied.  “I think we can expect at least another year of war.  I know Germany is in a bad way, but our terms mean unconditional surrender.  The Germans will not be silly enough to imagine that, once they are disarmed and helpless, we shall stick to the Fourteen Points or be bound by any promises of any kind.  No, the Germans will fight on, they will shorten their front, and they will at least keep the Allies off German territory for an indefinite period until they can secure better terms.”

“You overrate the strength of the Germans.  I think the German army is becoming completely demoralized.  I also think that the blockade has done its work amongst the civilian population.  We shall have an armistice within the next few days.  Perhaps rumour is correct for once and the war is already over.  We haven’t heard any guns for a long time—­the front is extraordinarily quiet.”

“Yes, but we would have heard officially—­news like that would never be kept from us.”

“That’s true enough—­I expect the thing is being discussed and a decision will be reached before long.”

We all agreed that as soon as the fighting ceased, we would be informed.  The news of the Armistice would be telegraphed to every unit and it would reach us within a few minutes from the actual signature.  And then, what would we do then?  How would our feelings find an outlet?  It was impossible to say.  Shouting, singing, dancing, would they give us relief?  Speculation was useless, painfully useless.  And yet what else could we think about?

Peace—­peace did not matter so very much, if only the slaughter would stop.  To us soldiers, and most of all to soldiers in the line, an Armistice would mean more than any words could tell.  And, therefore, we would be the first to receive the news.  Bad as the army was, it was not so bad as to keep such tidings from us.  Besides, everybody would rejoice so much, that all distinctions of rank would disappear and the general would be no more privileged than the private.  Still, the war was not over yet, and it would be better not to hope too much.

It was Sunday, the 10th of November.  We had no work to do and wandered restlessly round the town.  An official communique was posted up outside the Mairie, but it contained nothing new.  There was a crowd of soldiers round a Belgian boy who was selling English papers.  We bought the last copies, but they were of the previous Thursday and did not add to our knowledge.  The suspense was becoming unbearable.  My conviction that the Germans would reject the terms of the Allies was shaken—­not by any further evidence, but by the general atmosphere of excitement and hopeful expectation which communicated itself to me.  I kept on repeating to myself, “They will not sign, they will not sign,” and intellectually I believed my own words.  And yet I was continually imagining the war already over and what I merely thought seemed unessential and irrelevant.  The stress of wild hopes and mental agitation became almost a physical pain.