THE GROWING OF THE VISION


I'm continuing in America the book which I thought out during the
golden July and August days when I lay in the hospital in London. I've
been here a fortnight; everything that's happened seems unbelievably
wonderful, as though it had happened to some one other than
myself. It'll seem still more wonderful in a few weeks' time when I'm
where I hope I shall be--back in the mud at the Front.

Here's how this miraculous turn of events occurred. When I went
before my medical board I was declared unfit for active service for at
least two months. A few days later I went in to General Headquarters
to see what were the chances of a trip to New York. The officer whom I
consulted pulled out his watch, "It's noon now. There's a boat-train
leaving Euston in two and a half hours. Do you think you can pack up
and make it?"

_Did I think_!

"You watch me," I cried.

Dashing out into Regent Street I rounded up a taxi and raced about
London like one possessed, collecting kit, visiting tailors,
withdrawing money, telephoning friends with whom I had dinner and
theatre engagements. It's an extraordinary characteristic of the Army,
but however hurried an officer may be, he can always spare time to
visit his tailor. The fare I paid my taxi-driver was too monstrous for
words; but then he'd missed his lunch, and one has to miss so many
things in war-times that when a new straw of inconvenience is piled on