parapet when all the detachment were killed. Carrying it out into a
shell-hole, he held back the Hun attack and saved the situation. He got
drunk again, and again chose to be returned to the trenches. This time
his head was blown off while he was engaged in a special feat of
gallantry. What are you to say to such men? Ordinarily they'd be
blackguards, but war lifts them into splendour. In the same way you see
mild men, timid men, almost girlish men, carrying out duties which in
other wars would have won V.C.'s. I don't think the soul of courage
ever dies out of the race any more than the capacity for love. All it
means is that the occasion is not present. For myself I try to analyse
my emotions; am I simply numb, or do I imitate other people's coolness
and shall I fear life again when the war is ended? There is no
explanation save the great army phrase "Carry on." We "carry on"
because, if we don't, we shall let other men down and put their lives in
danger. And there's more than that--we all want to live up to the
standard that prompted us to come.

One talks about splendour--but war isn't splendid except in the
individual sense. A man by his own self-conquest can make it splendid
for himself, but in the massed sense it's squalid. There's nothing
splendid about a battlefield when the fight is ended--shreds of what
once were men, tortured, levelled landscapes--the barbaric loneliness of
Hell. I shall never forget my first dead man. He was a signalling
officer, lying in the dawn on a muddy hill. I thought he was asleep at
first, but when I looked more closely, I saw that his shoulder blade was
showing white through his tunic. He was wearing black boots. It's odd,
but the sight of black boots have the same effect on me now that black
and white stripes had in childhood. I have the superstitious feeling
that to wear them would bring me bad luck.