For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but
the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing
is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more
expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the
financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of
certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in "the front rank"--
but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of
publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of
anything save disillusionment.

To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a
depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the
morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I
could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the
case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was
soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns
played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself.
Another way was--why not?--to write plays.

So we began with Wurzel-Flummery. I say "we," because another is
mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She
wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out
for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one
could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it
was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in
the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might
come from this new venture; there has never been any serious
thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for
publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course,