What indeed? But can you help it? You, cheery idiot, are worrying just as much as any one else. Villiers’ torture by hope. If you were _quite_ certain that your number was up, you’d have at least the tranquillity of resignation. But you’re not quite certain. Even in the infantry men come back. With a really healthy wound you might be out of the line for six or nine months. That was called “getting a blighty one,” if you were lucky enough to get sent back to England—“Blighty.” The men were discussing blighties. Which was the most convenient blighty? Arm or leg? Most agreed that if you lost your left hand or a foot, you were damned lucky—you were out of the bloody War for good and you got a pension and a wound-gratuity. Winterbourne stood with his back to them, looking out of the window; the ghosts of past summer visitors thronged the Esplanade. Left hand or a foot. Live a cripple. No, not that, not that, my God. Come back whole, or not at all. But how those men love life, how blindly they cling to their poor existences! You wouldn’t think they’d much to live for. No beautiful and smartly dressed Fannies and Elizabeths. Oh, they have their “tarts,” they’ve all got a girl’s “photo” in their pay books—and what girls! Tarts for Tommies. Cream tarts for Tommies. He turned away abruptly from the window and sat down to clean his buttons. Always keep yourself clean and smart, and walk about in a soldierly way.... * * * * * His mood changed and his spirits rose as they marched down to the docks. Only twelve hours had passed since they left and yet it seemed a tremendously long time. Winterbourne realized that the monotony, the imbecile restrictions, the incredible nagging of military pedants, had been crushing him into a condition of utter stupidity. He regretted deeply that he had been kept in England so long. At least you were doing something real in France, and there was movement.... Troops were pouring along the quay, and mounting the gangways on to three black-painted troopships. Winterbourne recognized the ships as old friends—they were pre-war Channel packet-boats transformed. Huge notices were displayed on the quays: “No. 1 Ship, 33rd Div., 19th Div., 42nd Div., 118th Brigade.” An officer with a megaphone shouted: “Leave Men to the Right, Drafts to the Left.” Another megaphone shouted: “First Army Men, Number 1 Ship.” “Third and Fourth Armies, Number 3 Ship.” “Captain Swanson, 11th Seaforth Highlanders, report to R.T.O.’s office immediately.” It was rather stirring—animated and efficient as well as bustling.