There were lecturers (really good ones) who discoursed on a wide range of topics, from Mendelism to Mesopotamia. There were professors of French, Italian, Greek, Russian, Turkish, Arabic, Hindustani, and I daresay all the languages of Babel, ready to teach in return for reciprocal instruction in English. Our library contained many luminous volumes, kindly sent out by the Board of Trade. Law and Seamanship, Semaphoring and Theology, Carpentry and the Integral Calculus, Gardening and Genetics--such is a random selection of the subjects on which there were experts available and eager to impart information. But, personally, my mind resisted the seductions of learning. I learned only how to waste time. And sometimes, perhaps, I touched the hem of Philosophy's garment, and stammered a few words to her. Otherwise I did nothing except try to forget things . . . things seen. Yet one enjoyed oneself, occasionally. The football was great fun. So also were some of the lighter sides of our indoor life. Poker used to pass the time. So also, though more rarely, did reading. The plays which a dramatist--soon to be eminent, I expect--presented to enthusiastic audiences are delightful memories. His revues and topical verses were worthy of a wider audience, and I am sure his work--unlike the most of our labours--will not be wasted. But best of all, I think, was to sit in a circle on the floor round a brazier on a winter's evening, and sip hot lemon _'araq_, and listen to songs and stories. It was a relief to laugh, and forget the fate of those we could not help. "Sweet life, if love were stronger, Earth clear of years that wrong her . . ." sang a soft Irish voice, whose melody seemed to melt into the cold of one's captivity. . . . Then there were the fancy dress balls held on New Year's Eve in 1917 and 1918. So good were they that for the night one completely forgot one's surroundings. A very attractive barmaid dispensed refreshments behind a table. There were several debutantes, and at least one chaperone. Pierrot was there, and Pierrette, and Mephistopheles, and Bacchus, and a very realistic Pirate. If some reveller in London had looked in on us at midnight he might easily have fancied himself at an Albert Hall dance. He would certainly not have guessed that all the clothes and furniture and food were home-made, and that everyone in the room was a British officer. The self-confident flapper, for instance, who could only have given him "the next missing three" was a Major in the Flying Corps. And the girl at the bar, with big brown eyes, who would have offered him _'araq_ so charmingly was really a submarine officer of the Navy, and a well-known figure at "The Goat." After functions such as these, the morning after the night before found me wondering where it would all end. If the war lasted another ten years, would I ever be fit to take a place in normal life? How long could I keep sane in this topsy-turvy world? . . . * * * * *