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ere never enough girls to go round。 in the valley below the camp there was a bit of a spinney； and long before dusk you’d see a couple glued against every tree； and sometimes； if it happened to be a thick tree； one on each side of it。 my chief memory of that time is sitting against a gorse…bush in the freezing wind； with my fingers so cold i couldn’t bend them and the taste of a peppermint cream in my mouth。 that’s a typical soldier’s memory。 but i was getting away from a tommy’s life； all the same。 the c。o。 had sent my name in for a mission a little before i was wounded。 by this time they were desperate for officers and anyone who wasn’t actually illiterate could have a mission if he wanted one。 i went straight from the hospital to an officers’ training camp near colchester。
it’s very strange； the things the war did to people。 it was less than three years since i’d been a spry young shop…assistant； bending over the counter in my white apron with ‘yes； madam！ certainly； madam！ and the next order； madam？’ with a grocer’s life ahead of me and about as much notion of being an army officer as of getting a knighthood。 and here i was already； swaggering about in a gorblimey hat and a yellow collar and more or less keeping my end up among a crowd of other temporary gents and some who weren’t even temporary。 and—this is really the point—not feeling it in any way strange。 nothing seemed strange in those days。
it was like an enormous machine that had got hold of you。 you’d no sense of acting of your own free will； and at the same time no notion of trying to resist。 if people didn’t have some such feeling as that； no war could last three months。 the armies would just pack up and go home。 why had i joined the army？ or the million other idiots who joined up before conscription came in？ partly for a lark and partly because of england my england and britons never never and all that stuff。 but how long did that last？ most of the chaps i knew had forgotten all about it long before they got as far as france。 the men in the trenches weren’t patriotic； didn’t hate the kaiser； didn’t care a damn about gallant little belgium and the germans raping nuns on tables （it was always ‘on tables’； as though that made it worse） in the streets of brussels。 on the other hand it didn’t occur to them to try and escape。 the machine had got hold of you and it could do what it liked with you。 it lifted you up and dumped you down among places and things you’d never dreamed of； and if it had dumped you down on the surface of the moon it wouldn’t have seemed particularly strange。 the day i joined the army the old life was finished。 it was as though it didn’t concern me any longer。 i wonder if you’d believe that from that day forward i only once went back to lower binfield； and that was to mother’s funeral？ it sounds incredible now； but it seemed natural enough at the time。 partly； i admit； it was on account of elsie； whom； of course； i’d stopped writing to after two or three months。 no doubt she’d picked up with someone else； but i didn’t want to meet her。 otherwise； perhaps； when i got a bit of leave i’d have gone down and seen mother； who’d had fits when i joined the army but would have been proud of a son in uniform。
father died in 1915。 i was in france at the time。 i don’t exaggerate when i say that father’s death hurts me more now than it did then。 at the time it was just a bit of bad news which i accepted almost without interest； in the sort of empty…headed apathetic way in which one accepted everything in the trenches。 i remember crawling into the doorway of the dugout to get enough light to read the letter； and i remember mother’s tear…stains on the letter； and the aching feeling in my knees and the smell of mud。 father’s life…insurance policy had been mortgaged for most of its value； but there was a little money in the bank and sarazins’ were going to buy up the stock and even pay some tiny amount for the good…will。 anyway； mother had a bit over two hundred pounds； besides the furniture。 she went for the time being to lodge with her cousin； the wife of a small…holder who was doing pretty well out of the war； near doxley； a few miles the other side of walton。 it was only ‘for the time being’。 there was a temporary feeling about everything。 in the old days； which as a matter of fact were barely a year old； the whole thing would have been an appalling disaster。 with father dead； the shop sold and mother with two hundred pounds in the world； you’d have seen stretching out in front of you a kind of fifteen…act tragedy； the last act being a pauper’s funeral。 but now the war and the feeling of not being one’s own master overshadowed everything。 people hardly thought in terms of things like bankruptcy and the workhouse any longer。 this was the case even with mother； who； god knows； had only very dim notions about the war。 besides； she was already dying； though neither of us knew it。
she came across to see me in the hospital at eastbourne。 it was over two years since i’d seen her； and her appearance gave me a bit of a shock。 she seemed to have faded and somehow to have shrunken。 partly it was because by this time i was grown…up； i’d travelled； and everything looked smaller to me； but there was no question that she’d got thinner； and also yellower。 she talked in the old rambling way about aunt martha （that was the cousin she was staying with）； and the changes in lower binfield since the war； and all the boys who’d ‘gone’ （meaning joined the army）； and her indigestion which was ‘aggravating’； and poor father’s tombstone and what a lovely corpse he made。 it was the old talk； the talk i’d listened to for years； and yet somehow it was like a ghost talking。 it didn’t concern me any longer。 i’d known her as a great splendid protecting kind of creature； a bit like a ship’s figure…head and a bit like a broody hen； and after all she was only a little old woman in a black dress。 everything was changing and fading。 that was the last time i saw her alive。 i got the wire saying she was seriously ill when i was at the training school at colchester； and put in for a week’s urgent leave immediately。 but it was too late。 she was dead by the time i got to doxley。 what she and everyone else had imagined to be indigestion was some kind of internal growth； and a sudden chill on the stomach put the final touch。 the doctor tried to cheer me up by telling me that the growth was ‘benevolent’； which struck me as a queer thing to call it； seeing that it had killed her。
well； we buried her next to father； and that was my last glimpse of lower binfield。 it had changed a lot； even in three years。 some of the shops were shut； some had different names over them。 nearly all the men i’d known as boys were gone； and some of them were dead。 sid lovegrove was dead； killed on the somme。 ginger watson； the farm lad who’d belonged to the black hand years ago； the one who used to catch rabbits alive； was dead in egypt。 one of the chaps who’d worked with me at grimmett’s had lost both legs。 old lovegrove had shut up his shop and was living in a cottage near walton on a tiny annuity。 old grimmett； on the other hand； was doing well out of