“He above the rest
    In shape and gesture proudly eminent
    Stood like a tower....”

and so on, line after line.  The dreariness of the verses grew so intense as to be almost intolerable.  At the same time I was dimly conscious of the fact that at one time I thought this passage beautiful.  But the beat of the blank verse carried me on.  Sometimes it seemed to blend with the buzzing of those angry wasps above and sometimes the two rhythms would vie with each other for speed, so that they hurried along each alternately ahead of the other.  I came to a line where my memory failed me.  I faltered for a moment, but the droning sound seemed to grow into an enormous roar, and I leapt back to the beginning: 

    “He above the rest....”

and then on and on a second time until my head throbbed with the double pulsation.

Suddenly a man who had been lying on the far side of the marquee got up and said: 

“I’ve had enough of this, I’m going to sleep in a ditch.”

He went off.  The wasps were still buzzing, but the interruption had broken the spell.  I felt a sense of relief.  I became conscious of intense weariness and felt ashamed of my fears.  I cursed the German aeroplanes and thought, “Let them do their worst, I don’t care.”  I made up my mind to go to sleep and resolutely buried my face in my pillow.  Then it occurred to me that I would never be able to enjoy Paradise Lost again, and I was half-amused and agreeably distracted by the trivial thought.

But the wasps were still buzzing.  Another man began to groan loudly: 

“Gawd—­this is bloody awful—­why the bloody ’ell can’t they leave us alone!”

Thereupon his neighbour tried to create an impression by appearing calm and philosophical.  He said in a strained, breaking voice: 

“Think of all the waste in life and treasure this frightful war involves.  Think of the moral degradation.  Think of the widows and orphans.  Think of the....”  He was unequal to the effort and his voice trailed away and then seemed to catch in his throat.  But he recovered and with a kind of gasp he squeezed out a few more words:  “Bill, forgive me for insulting you to-day—­I didn’t mean it, Bill.  Forget it, Bill, forget it!  If you get killed without forgiving me, my conscience will always torture....”

“For Christ’s sake shut up, yer bleed’n’ ’ypocrite,” interrupted the gruff voice of “Bill” somewhere out of the darkness.  “Yer always bleed’n’ well preachin’—­it’s bad enough ‘avin’ Fritz over us without you bloody well rubbin’ it in.  If yer don’t shut yer mouth, I’ll come over an’ shut it for yer, ’struth I will.”

The philosopher said no more, but another voice made itself heard, that of a good-natured, elderly bachelor, who said with melancholy resignation: 

“It’s jolly hard, all the same, to be knocked out like this.  You’re so helpless—­no dug-outs, no shelters anywhere....”