Somehow you always thought yourself back to England. No matter what
train of thought you went upon, it always worked its way by one thread
or another to England. Mine did, anyway.

It was better to be up with the stretcher-squads in the firing line
than lying there sick, and thinking those long, long thoughts.

This is how I would think--

"What a waste of life; what a waste . . . Christianity this; all part
of civilisation; what's it all for? Queer thing this civilised
Christianity . . . very queer. So this really IS war; see now: how
does it feel? not much different to usual . . . But why? It's getting
awfully sickening . . . plenty of excitement, too--plenty . . . too
much, in fact; very easy to get killed any time here; plenty of men
getting killed every minute over there; but it isn't really very
exciting . . . not like I thought war was in England . . . England?
Long way off, England; thousands of miles; they don't know I'm sick in
England; wonder what they'd think to see me now; not a bad place,
England, green trees and green grass . . . much better place than I
thought it was; wonder how long this will hang on . . . I'd like to
get back after it's finished here; I expect it's all going on just the
same in England; people going about to offices in London; women
dressing themselves up and shopping; and all that . . . This is a d--
-- place, this beastly peninsula--no green anywhere . . . just yellow
sand and grey rocks and sage-coloured bushes, dead grass--even the
thistles are all bleached and dead and rustling in the breeze like
paper flowers . . .

"And we WANTED to get out here . . . Just eating our hearts out to get