February 2nd.

You see by the writing how tired I was when I reached this point.  It’s nearly twenty-four hours later and again night.  The gramophone is playing an air from La Tosca to which the guns beat out a bass accompaniment.  I close my eyes and picture the many times I have heard the (probably) German orchestras of Broadway Joy Palaces play that same music.  How incongruous that I should be listening to it here and under these circumstances!  It must have been listened to so often by gay crowds in the beauty places of the world.  A romantic picture grows up in my mind of a blue night, the laughter of youth in evening dress, lamps twinkling through trees, far off the velvety shadow of water and mountains, and as a voice to it all, that air from La Tosca.  I can believe that the silent people near by raise themselves up in their snow-beds to listen, each one recalling some ecstatic moment before the dream of life was shattered.

There’s a picture in the Pantheon at Paris, I remember; I believe it’s called To Glory.  One sees all the armies of the ages charging out of the middle distance with Death riding at their head.  The only glory that I have discovered in this war is in men’s hearts—­it’s not external.  Were one to paint the spirit of this war he would depict a mud landscape, blasted trees, an iron sky; wading through the slush and shell-holes would come a file of bowed figures, more like outcasts from the Embankment than soldiers.  They’re loaded down like pack animals, their shoulders are rounded, they’re wearied to death, but they go on and go on.  There’s no “To Glory” about what we’re doing out here; there’s no flash of swords or splendour of uniforms.  There are only very tired men determined to carry on.  The war will be won by tired men who could never again pass an insurance test, a mob of broken counter-jumpers, ragged ex-plumbers and quite unheroic persons.  We’re civilians in khaki, but because of the ideals for which we fight we’ve managed to acquire soldiers’ hearts.

My flow of thought was interrupted by a burst of song in which I was compelled to join.  We’re all writing letters around one candle; suddenly the O.C. looked up and began, God Be With You Till We Meet Again.  We sang it in parts.  It was in Southport, when I was about nine years old, that I first heard that sung.  You had gone for your first trip to America, leaving a very lonely family behind you.  We children were scared to death that you’d be drowned.  One evening, coming back from a walk on the sand-hills, we heard voices singing in a garden, God Be With You Till We Meet Again.  The words and the soft dusk, and the vague figures in the English summer garden, seemed to typify the terror of all partings.  We’ve said good-bye so often since, and God has been with us.  I don’t think any parting was more hard than our last at the prosaic dock-gates with the cold wind of duty blowing, and the sentry barring your entrance, and your path leading