"It isn't the danger," he protested. "It isn't _that_ I'm getting
away from. To hell with the danger! It's just the plain discomfort
of it! It's the never being your own master, never being clean,
never being warm." Again he shivered and rubbed one hand against
the other. "There were no bridges over the streams," he went on,
"and we had to break the ice and wade in, and then sleep in the
open with the khaki frozen to us. There was no firewood; not
enough to warm a pot of tea. There were no wounded; all our
casualties were frost bite and pneumonia. When we take them out of
the blankets their toes fall off. We've been in camp for a month
now near Doiran, and it's worse there than on the march. It's a
frozen swamp. You can't sleep for the cold; can't eat; the only
ration we get is bully beef, and our insides are frozen so damn
tight we can't digest it. The cold gets into your blood, gets into
your brains. It won't let you think; or else, you think crazy
things. It makes you afraid." He shook himself like a man coming
out of a bad dream.

"So, I'm through," he said. In turn he scowled at each of us, as
though defying us to contradict him. "That's why I'm quitting," he
added. "Because I've done my bit. Because I'm damn well fed up on
it." He kicked viciously at the water-logged uniform on the floor.
"Any one who wants my job can have it!" He walked to the window,
turned his back on us, and fixed his eyes hungrily on the
_Adriaticus_. There was a long pause. For guidance we looked at
John, but he was staring down at the desk blotter, scratching on
it marks that he did not see.

Finally, where angels feared to tread, the Kid rushed in. "That's
certainly a hard luck story," he said; "but," he added cheerfully,