not looking my forty years, it was a black disgrace. To go into
Germany as an anti-British Afrikander was a stoutish adventure,
but to lounge about at home talking rot was a very different-sized
job. My stomach rose at the thought of it, and I had pretty well
decided to wire to Bullivant and cry off. There are some things that
no one has a right to ask of any white man.

When I got to Isham and found poor old Blaikie I didn't feel
happier. He had been a friend of mine in Rhodesia, and after the
German South-West affair was over had come home to a Fusilier
battalion, which was in my brigade at Arras. He had been buried by
a big crump just before we got our second objective, and was dug
out without a scratch on him, but as daft as a hatter. I had heard he
was mending, and had promised his family to look him up the first
chance I got. I found him sitting on a garden seat, staring steadily
before him like a lookout at sea. He knew me all right and cheered
up for a second, but very soon he was back at his staring, and every
word he uttered was like the careful speech of a drunken man. A
bird flew out of a bush, and I could see him holding himself tight
to keep from screaming. The best I could do was to put a hand on
his shoulder and stroke him as one strokes a frightened horse. The
sight of the price my old friend had paid didn't put me in love
with pacificism.

We talked of brother officers and South Africa, for I wanted to
keep his thoughts off the war, but he kept edging round to it.

'How long will the damned thing last?' he asked.

'Oh, it's practically over,' I lied cheerfully. 'No more fighting for