...
But when I say that I stayed where I was I don't mean to suggest that
I didn't go on leave in the usual way. Indeed I often came home, in
full regimentals, too, partly to impress you and partly to travel
first-class at your expense. Fellow-passengers never thought of
turning on me and rending me, as being the cause of
six-shillings-in-the-pound. They would be extremely polite and make
friendly conversation with me, leading up to the point that they had
been soldiers themselves once, but had given it up, owing to having
been told that the War was finished.
I would be just as polite to them, telling them they might count on
me to return to the discomforts and risks of civil life as soon as I
could be spared from the front. They had never the intelligence, or
daring to ask, "The front of what?"
Now the climax has arrived; I am asked if they must throw me out or
will I go quietly? I fancy I have been caught by one of those
card-indexes. I suspect some Departmental General of showing off to a
friend. "This is my IN basket," I can hear him explaining as he shows
his audience his office; "every letter which comes in goes into the
IN. That is my OUT basket, and every letter which goes out goes out of
the OUT.
"And then, Sir, we have the Card Index. A complete record of every
officer in the Army, permanent or temporary."
"Are there still temporary officers in the Army?" asks the audience,
not being able to think of anything better to ask, and clearly being
called upon to ask something.
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