In the early days of demobilisation there was, I think, a certain novelty and attraction about my attitude to the problem.  In contrast to the impatient hordes crowding the entrance of the War Office, ringing the front-door bell violently, tapping on the window-panes and generally disturbing that serene atmosphere of peace which was the great feature of the War in Whitehall, it was refreshing to think of Henry, plugging quietly away elsewhere at his military duties, undeterred by armistices, peaces and things of that kind.  I fancy I was well thought of in those days at the War House.

“Say what you like about him,” I can hear A.G.4 remarking to M.S.19 (decimal 9 recurring) as they met in the corridor on their way to lunch, “but I find him a patient, well-behaved young fellow.”

“Yes,” would be the thoughtful answer, “it seems almost a pity we are going to lose him.”

Speaking strictly between ourselves, I have never thought much of the Military Secretary branch.  What made them think they were going to lose me as easily as all that?

What I said to myself was:  “Henry, my lad, thirteen shillings and elevenpence a day is thirteen shillings and elevenpence a day; now isn’t it?  And war isn’t war when there is a peace coming on.  Why then throw up a fat income just for the sake of getting into long trousers?  You stay where you are till they come and fetch you.”

So I just stayed where I was, and I conducted the operation with such ability and tact that Whitehall came to forget all about me.  My name went on appearing, with ever-increasing dignity and beauty, in the Army List; but that made no difference.  You see, though lots of people write the Army List, no one ever reads it; only from time to time a man will surreptitiously turn up his own name, just to renew his feeling of self-importance, or in an emergency he will look up the name of a friend in order to get the right initials after it and not risk giving that personal offence which may prevent the loan....

But when I say that I stayed where I was I don’t mean to suggest that I didn’t go on leave in the usual way.  Indeed I often came home, in full regimentals, too, partly to impress you and partly to travel first-class at your expense.  Fellow-passengers never thought of turning on me and rending me, as being the cause of six-shillings-in-the-pound.  They would be extremely polite and make friendly conversation with me, leading up to the point that they had been soldiers themselves once, but had given it up, owing to having been told that the War was finished.

I would be just as polite to them, telling them they might count on me to return to the discomforts and risks of civil life as soon as I could be spared from the front.  They had never the intelligence, or daring to ask, “The front of what?”

Now the climax has arrived; I am asked if they must throw me out or will I go quietly?  I fancy I have been caught by one of those card-indexes.  I suspect some Departmental General of showing off to a friend.  “This is my IN basket,” I can hear him explaining as he shows his audience his office; “every letter which comes in goes into the IN.  That is my OUT basket, and every letter which goes out goes out of the OUT.