their souls, began to reassert itself.

But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy
a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end--I
would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I
would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth
it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until
dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again,
calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach
the little village, the main street winding between white houses and
flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into
the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the
door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask:
"Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I
felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time
battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would
be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the
same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at
war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the
war. My dream had vanished.

But I _would_ make the best of things. I _would_ enjoy the immediate
present--was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these
thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?

Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type--a thatched
roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond
with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing
peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches.
The tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes.