agazines, had
published an article showing that a war between Great Britain and
Germany was almost unthinkable. It had been written by an undergraduate
who had actually been at a German university. Had the multitudinous
Anglo-German societies at Oxford worked in vain? The world came crashing
round our ears. Naymier was urgent for an Oxford or a Balliol Legion--I
do not remember which--but we could not take him seriously. Two of us
decided that we were physical cowards, and would not under any
circumstances enlist. The flower of Oxford was too valuable to be used
as cannon-fodder.

The days passed like weeks. Our minds were hot and confused. It seemed
that England must come in. On the afternoon of the fourth of August I
travelled up to London. At a certain club in St James's there was little
hope. I walked down Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square a vast, serious crowd
was anxiously waiting for news. In Whitehall Belgians were doing their
best to rouse the mob. Beflagged cars full of wildly gesticulating
Belgians were driving rapidly up and down. Belgians were haranguing
little groups of men. Everybody remained quiet but perturbed.

War was a certainty. I did not wish to be a spectator of the scenes
that would accompany its declaration, so I went home. All the night in
my dreams I saw the quiet, perturbed crowds.

War was declared. All those of us who were at Balliol together
telephoned to one another so that we might enlist together. Physical
coward or no physical coward--it obviously had to be done. Teddy and
Alec were going into the London Scottish. Early in the morning I started
for London to join them, but on the way up I read the paragraph in which
the War Office appealed for motor-cyclists. So I went straight to
Scotland Yard. There I was taken up to a large room full of benches
crammed with all sorts and conditions of men. The old fellow on my right
was a sign-writer. On my left was a racing motor-cyclist. We waited for
hours. Frightened-looking men were sworn in and one phenomenally grave
small boy. Later I should have said that a really fine stamp of man was
enlisting. Then they seemed to me a shabby crew.

At last we were sent downstairs, and told to strip and array ourselves
in moderately dirty blue dressing-gowns. Away from the formality of the
other room we sang little songs, and made the worst jokes in the
world--being continually interrupted by an irritable sergeant, whom we
called "dearie." One or two men