d lieutenants may yet be given the chance to drive a Boche general
or two into the woods, or even--who can limit the freaks of
Providence?--plug down shots at the Limelight Kaiser himself, as he
tours behind the front in his favourite _role_ of Bombastes Furioso.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAILY ROUND.

During a bout of active service one happens upon experiences that,
though they make no immediate impression, become more prominent than the
most dramatic events, when the period is past and can be viewed in
retrospect. Sub-consciousness, wiser than the surface brain, penetrates
to the inner sanctuary of true values, photographs something typical of
war's many aspects, places the negative in the dark room of memory, and
fades into inertia until again called upon to act as arbiter of
significance for everyday instinct. Not till long later, when released
from the tension of danger and abnormal endeavour, is one's mind free to
develop the negative and produce a clear photograph. The sensitive
freshness of the print then obtained is likely to last a lifetime. I
leave a detailed explanation of this process to the comic people who
claim acquaintance with the psychology of the immortal soul; for my
part, I am content to remain a collector of such mental photographs.

A few examples of the sub-conscious impressions gathered during my last
year's term at the Front are the curious smile of a dead observer as we
lifted his body from a bullet-plugged machine; the shrieking of the
wires whenever we dived on Hun aircraft; a tree trunk falling on a
howitzer; a line of narrow-nosed buses, with heavy bombs fitted under
the lower planes, ready to leave for their objective; the ghostliness of
Ypres as we hovered seven thousand feet above its ruins; a certain
riotous evening when eight of the party of fourteen ate their last
dinner on earth; a severe reprimand delivered to me by a meticulous
colonel, after I returned from a long reconnaissance that included four
air flights, for the crime of not having fastened my collar before
arrival on the aerodrome at 5 A.M.; a broken Boche aeroplane
falling in two segments at a height of ten thousand feet; the breathless
moments at a Base hospital when the surgeon-in-charge examined new
casualties to decide which of them were to be sent across the Channel;
and clearest of all, the brown-faced infantry marching back to the
trenches from our village.

A muddy, unkempt battalion would arrive in searc