"It's something to think about and look forward to, anyhow."

We said good-night to each other and retired to our tents. Most of the
men were already in bed. They were smoking their cigarettes as they lay
stretched out on the floor. One of them was reading a newspaper by
candlelight. I wrapped myself up in my blankets and wedged myself
tightly in between my two neighbours. Although I was wearied out, I felt
compelled to glance at a paper. There might perhaps be some hint of
peace, some little glimmer of hope to go to sleep with and dream about.
I took up my copy of the _Times_ which I received irregularly. I began
to read the leading article but was so irritated by its unctuous
hypocrisy that I turned the page over and scanned the headlines.
Suddenly a big drop of water splashed on to it. I became aware of the
rain outside, swishing down upon the canvas, and, looking up, I saw a
glistening patch of moisture collect above my head. Another heavy drop
descended, I stretched out my arm and pushing my fist against the wet
patch drew it down the canvas as far as the brailing. But the moisture
continued to gather, and soon it was dripping in many places. My
kit-bag, standing upright next to me, was getting wet, so I placed the
_Times_ over it and let the water trickle off towards the ditch. Then a
man shouted from the other side of the tent:

"It's coming through like anything, my whole pillow's sopping wet."

It was more than he could bear. Each little discomfort taken separately
would have been altogether negligible. But when petty discomforts
accumulate there comes a time when one more, however small it be, has
the effect of a sudden infliction. He ground his teeth with fury at
those pattering drops of water, but the realization of impotence seemed