“They don’t want us to know!”

“They’re damned sorry it’s all over!”

“There’s too many of ’em wi’ soft jobs what wants the war to go on for ever!”

“What are you grumbling about?  What has the Armistice got to do with us?  The Armistice concerns the Staff, not us.  It’s not our business—­we’re only common soldiers.”

When we got back to camp a boy was selling papers at the entrance.  I bought a Times.  It was Tuesday’s.  The Armistice had been signed on the Monday morning!

I went to my tent and sat down and thought it over.  The terms were ominous.  There was no doubt about it this time—­the war had come to an end.  I thought of home and of freedom.  It almost seemed as though army-life had been a dream.  I was still in the army, but a few months more or less would make no difference, for my thoughts would be all in the future.

Then I pondered over the last insult the army had given us—­the insult of not even telling us when the war was over, and making no concessions to allow us time for rejoicing or reflection.  After having slaved and suffered all these years we were ignored as though we did not exist.  Still, one insult more or less did not matter, for we would be out of it soon.

In the evening the celebrations were resumed.  They lacked the spontaneity of those that were held on the Sunday night.  Nevertheless, the rejoicing was genuine, for our suspense had been followed by an immense relief.

As I lay in my tent amid the shouting and singing I again felt that bitter thoughts were gathering, but I was distracted by a man sitting two places from me, who said: 

“It’s a bloody shame we can’t get any wine or spirits and get bloody well drunk to-night.”

A man lying near him, who had kept very quiet all the evening, suddenly sat up erect, glaring with fury, and shouted: 

“That’s all you can think about, getting drunk—­you dirty little blackguard!  You don’t deserve to have peace, you don’t!  Bloody lot of fools—­all shouting and singing and wanting to get drunk!  They ought to have more respect for the dead!  The war’s over, and we’re bloody lucky to get out of it unharmed, but it’s nothing to shout about when there’s hundreds and thousands of our mates dead or maimed for life.”

“Don’t talk bloody sentimental rot—­call yourself a soldier?  You ought to be a bloody parson!”

“I don’t call myself a soldier—­it’s a bloody insult to be called a soldier.  I’m not a bloody patriot either—­I reckon patriotism’s a bloody curse.  I kept out of the army as long as I could, but they combed me out (that’s their polite way of putting it!), and shoved me into khaki, but they never made a soldier of me!  I’ve never been any use to them!  I only worked when they forced me to.  I’ve been more expense and trouble to them than I’m worth.  I haven’t helped to win this wicked war, and I’m proud of it too!  Sentimental rot be damned—­if everyone had been my way of thinking there wouldn’t have been a war, no, not in any country.  The war’s won, I know, and I’m sorry for it.  But Fritz has come off best, not us.  He’s lost the war, but he’s found his bloody soul!  I’ll tell the civvies something about war when I get home—­I’ll tell ’em we rob the dead, I’ll tell ’em....”