hards, of
skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping
of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with
glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.

Before the war--before the war--I repeated the words to myself. They
conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost
for ever. But I _wouldn't_ think about it. I _would_ enjoy the present.
But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my
power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of
the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful
rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost
their souls, began to reassert itself.

But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy
a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end--I
would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I
would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth
it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until
dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again,
calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach
the little village, the main street winding between white houses and
flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into
the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the
door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask:
"Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I
felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time
battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would
be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the
same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at
war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the
war. My dream had vanished.

But I _would_ make the best of things. I _would_ enjoy the immediate
present--was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these
thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?

Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type--a thatched
roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond
with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing
peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches.
The tender green