, out there, beyond, the thing
called war was in full swing--the game was at its height. And the
letter beside him had taken him back in spirit. . . . After a while he
picked it up again and commenced to re-read the firm, clear
handwriting. . . .

No. 24, STATIONARY HOSPITAL.

MONDAY.

Derek, dear, I've been moved as you see from No. 13. I'm with the men
now, and though I hated going at first--yet, now, I think I almost
prefer it. With the officers there must always be a little
constraint--at least, I have never been able to get rid of the feeling.
Perhaps with more experience it would vanish _je ne sais pas_ . . . but
with the men it's never there. They're just children, Derek, just dear
helpless kiddies; and so wonderfully grateful for any little thing one
does. Never a whimper; never the slightest impatience. . . . they're
just wonderful. One expects it from the officers; but somehow it
strikes one with a feeling almost of surprise when one meets it in the
men. There's one of them, a boy of eighteen, with both his legs blown
off above the knee. He just lies there silently, trying to understand.
He never worries or frets--but there's a look in his eyes--a puzzled,
questioning look sometimes--which asks as clearly as if he spoke--"Why
has this thing happened to _me_?" He comes from a little Devonshire
fishing village, he tells me; and until the war he'd never been away
from it! Can you imagine the pitiful, chaotic, helplessness in his
mind? Oh! doesn't it all seem too insensately brutal? . . . It's not
even as if there was any sport in it; it's all so utterly ugly and
bestial. . . . One feels so helpless, so bewildered, and the look in
some of their eyes makes one want to scream, with the horror of
it. . . .

But, old man, the object of this letter is not to inflict on you my
ideas on war. It is in a sense a continuation, and a development, of
our talk on the beach at Paris Plage. I have been thinking a good deal
lately about that conversation, and now that I have almost definitely
made up my mind as to what I propose to do myself after the war, I
consider it only fair to let you know. I said to you then that perhaps
my job might only be to help you to fulfil your own destiny, and
nothing which I have decided since alters that in any way. If you
still want me after the war--if we find that neither of us has made a
mistake--I can still help you, Derek, I hope. But, my dear, it won't
be quite a