they said how was they to write it down. And when it came to writing
there was so much to be said, not spread over a lot of paper I don't
mean, but going down so deep like, that it seemed to them how their
own talk wouldn't be good enough to say it. And they knew no other,
and didn't know what to do. I reckon they'd been reading magazines and
thought that writing had to be like that muck. Anyway, they didn't
know what to do. I reckon their talk would be good enough for
Daleswood when they loved Daleswood like that. But they didn't, and
they were puzzled.

``The Boche was miles away behind them now, and his barrage with him.
Still in front he did nothing.

``They talked it all over and over, did the Daleswood men. They tried
everything. But somehow or other they couldn't get near what they
wanted to say about old summer evenings. Time wore on. The bowlder was
smooth and ready, and that whole generation of Daleswood men could
find no words to say what was in their hearts about Daleswood. There
wasn't time to waste. And the only thing they thought of in the end
was `Please, God, remember Daleswood just like it used to be.' And
Bill and Harry carved that on the chalk between them.

``What happened to the Daleswood men? Why, nothing. There come one of
them counter-attacks, a regular bastard for Jerry. The French made it
and did the Boche in proper. I got the story from a man with a hell of
a great big hammer, long afterwards when that trench was well behind
our line. He was smashing up a huge great chunk of chalk because he
said they all felt it was so damn silly.''

The Road