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g in a cottage near walton on a tiny annuity。 old grimmett； on the other hand； was doing well out of the war and had turned patriotic and was a member of the local board which tried conscientious objectors。 the thing which more than anything else gave the town an empty； forlorn kind of look was that there were practically no horses left。 every horse worth taking had been mandeered long ago。 the station fly still existed； but the brute that pulled it wouldn’t have been able to stand up if it hadn’t been for the shafts。 for the hour or so that i was there before the funeral i wandered round the town； saying how d’you do to people and showing off my uniform。 luckily i didn’t run into elsie。 i saw all the changes； and yet it was as though i didn’t see them。 my mind was on other things； chiefly the pleasure of being seen in my second…loot’s uniform； with my black armlet （a thing which looks rather smart on khaki） and my new whipcord breeches。 i distinctly remember that i was still thinking about those whipcord breeches when we stood at the graveside。 and then they chucked some earth on to the coffin and i suddenly realized what it means for your mother to be lying with seven feet of earth on top of her； and something kind of twitched behind my eyes and nose； but even then the whipcord breeches weren’t altogether out of my mind。
don’t think i didn’t feel for mother’s death。 i did。 i wasn’t in the trenches any longer； i could feel sorry for a death。 but the thing i didn’t care a damn about； didn’t even grasp to be happening； was the passing…away of the old life i’d known。 after the funeral； aunt martha； who was rather proud of having a ‘real officer’ for a nephew and would have made a splash of the funeral if i’d let her； went back to doxley on the bus and i took the fly down to the station； to get the train to london and then to colchester。 we drove past the shop。 no one had taken it since father died。 it was shut up and the window…pane was black with dust； and they’d burned the ‘s。 bowling’ off the signboard with a plumber’s blowflame。 well； there was the house where i’d been a child and a boy and a young man； where i’d crawled about the kitchen floor and smelt the sainfoin and read ‘donovan the dauntless’； where i’d done my homework for the grammar school； mixed bread paste； mended bicycle punctures； and tried on my first high collar。 it had been as permanent to me as the pyramids； and now it would be just an accident if i ever set foot in it again。 father； mother； joe； the errand boys； old nailer the terrier； spot； the one that came after nailer； jackie the bullfinch； the cats； the mice in the loft—all gone； nothing left but dust。 and i didn’t care a damn。 i was sorry mother was dead； i was even sorry father was dead； but all the time my mind was on other things。 i was a bit proud of being seen riding in a cab； a thing i hadn’t yet got used to； and i was thinking of the sit of my new whipcord breeches； and my nice smooth officer’s putties； so different from the gritty stuff the tommies had to wear； and of the other chaps at colchester and the sixty quid mother had left and the beanos we’d have with it。 also i was thanking god that i hadn’t happened to run into elsie。
the war did extraordinary things to people。 and what was more extraordinary than the way it killed people was the way it sometimes didn’t kill them。 it was like a great flood rushing you along to death； and suddenly it would shoot you up some backwater where you’d find yourself doing incredible and pointless things and drawing extra pay for them。 there were labour battalions making roads across the desert that didn’t lead anywhere； there were chaps marooned on oceanic islands to look out for german cruisers which had been sunk years earlier； there were ministries of this and that with armies of clerks and typists which went on existing years after their function had ended； by a kind of inertia。 people were shoved into meaningless jobs and then forgotten by the authorities for years on end。 this was what happened to myself； or very likely i wouldn’t be here。 the whole sequence of events is rather interesting。
a little while after i was gazetted there was a call for officers of the a。s。c。 as soon as the o。c。 of the training camp heard that i knew something about the grocery trade （i didn’t let on that i’d actually been behind the counter） he told me to send my name in。 that went through all right； and i was just about to leave for another training…school for a。s。c。 officers somewhere in the midlands when there was a demand for a young officer； with knowledge of the grocery trade； to act as some kind of secretary to sir joseph cheam； who was a big noise in the a。s。c。 god knows why they picked me out； but at any rate they did so。 i’ve since thought that they probably mixed my name up with somebody else’s。 three days later i was saluting in sir joseph’s office。 he was a lean； upright； rather handsome old boy with grizzled hair and a grave…looking nose which immediately impressed me。 he looked the perfect professional soldier； the k。c。m。g。； d。s。o。 with bar type； and might have been twin brother to the chap in the de reszke advert； though in private life he was chairman of one of the big chain groceries and famous all over the world for something called the cheam wage…cut system。 he stopped writing as i came in and looked me over。
‘you a gentleman？’
‘no； sir。’
‘good。 then perhaps we’ll get some work done。’
in about three minutes he’d wormed out of me that i had no secretarial experience； didn’t know shorthand； couldn’t use a typewriter； and had worked in a grocery at twenty…eight shillings a week。 however； he said that i’d do； there were too many gentlemen in this damned army and he’d been looking for somebody who could count beyond ten。 i liked him and looked forward to working for him； but just at this moment the mysterious powers that seemed to be running the war drove us apart again。 something called the west coast defence force was being formed； or rather was being talked about； and there was some vague idea of establishing dumps of rations and other stores at various points along the coast。 sir joseph was supposed to be responsible for the dumps in the south… west corner of england。 the day after i joined his office he sent me down to check over the stores at a place called twelve mile dump； on the north cornish coast。 or rather my job was to find out whether any stores existed。 nobody seemed certain about this。 i’d just got there and discovered that the stores consisted of eleven tins of bully beef when a wire arrived from the war office telling me to take charge of the stores at twelve mile dump and remain there till further notice。 i wired back ‘no stores at twelve mile dump。’ too late。 next day came the official letter informing me that i was o。c。 twelve mile dump。 and that’s really the end of the story。 i remained o。c。 twelve mile dump for the rest of the war。
god knows what it was all about。 it’s no use asking me what the west coast defence force was or what it was supposed to do。 even at that time nobody pretended to know。 in any case it didn’t exist。 it was just a scheme that had fl