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