got seven fourteen-inch shells into
it this morning." "Has the offensive started?" said I. "That's about
it," said he.

London seemed very strange to me at first. I felt very out of things.

Nobody I met, except the soldiers, or those who had been to France
like myself, seemed to have any thoughts in common with mine: they did
not appear to want to think about the fighting man or of the colossal
deeds that were being done daily and nightly on the several fronts.
No, they all talked of their own war-work. Overworked they were, (p. 068)
breaking up--some at munitions; some at shoemaking classes; others
darning socks--and they were all suffering terribly from air raids. In
fact, to put it in a few words, they were well in the middle of the
world war; they were just the same as the fighting man in France or on
some other front.

Then it was that the definite thought came to me: the fighting man,
the Hero, will be forgotten; that the people of England who have not
been "overseas" and seen them at work, would never realise what these
men have been through--win or lose, they would never know.

Their constant talk was of the terrible things they at home were going
through on air-raid nights. It hurt me--their complaining about their
little chances of damage, when I knew that millions of men were
running a big risk of being blown into eternity at any moment, day or
night. It is true, my first visit home made me realise that the
fighting man after the war would be ignored, and I knew the
reason--"Jealousy." I had been given the chance of looking on, and I
had seen and worshipped. But if I had not seen, I might have felt just
the same as those who stayed at home. Jealousy is one of the strongest
things the human mind has to struggle against. Even now, after joint
victory, it is one of the things the Allied nations have to guard
against, for it exists between them, but surely the bond of the dead,
that great community:--

"The Chosen Few,
The very brave,
The very true,"

French, British, Belgian, Italian, Portuguese and American, surely (p. 069)
they should be enough to hold us together in love and respect, without
jealousy, or any envy, hatred or malice in our hearts!

It was decided that an exhibition of my stuff should be held, so
photographs had to be taken of each little thing, a title given to
each, and the whole bunch sent to G.H.Q. for Major Lee to censor,
which he did, refusing to pass nearly all of