it saw nothing in the progress of it to be depressed about. As the
evening wore on and they all came to find that they knew much more
about the subject than they supposed, they were prepared to increase
the allowance of casualties in pressing the merits of their own pet
schemes. No gloom arose from the possibility that this generous offer
might well include their own health and limbs. There was no gloom;
there was even no desire to change the subject. Indeed, the better to
continue it they called for something to drink. There was nothing to
drink, announced the Mess Orderly. Why was there nothing to drink?
asked the Mess President, advocate of enormous offensives on a wide
front for an indefinite period of years, if need be. The Mess Orderly
explained that more drink was on order, it had not arrived because
of difficulties of carriage. Why were there difficulties of carriage?
Because of the War. "Confound the War," said the Mess President. "It
really is the most infernal nuisance."

I know a Captain Jones, resident a cottage on the road to the
trenches (he calls this cottage his "Battle Box"), whose mind was very
violently moved from the impersonal to the personal point of view by a
quite trifling incident. He has one upstairs room for office, bedroom,
sitting, reception and dining room. His meals are brought over to
him by his servant from an estaminet across the road over which his
window looks. The other morning he was standing at this window waiting
for his breakfast to arrive. It was a fine frosty day, made all the
brighter by the sound of approaching bagpipes. Troops were about to
march past, suggesting great national thoughts to Jones and reminding
him of the familiar details of his own more active days. Jones
prepared to enjoy himself.

Colonels on horses, thought Jones as he contemplated, are much of a