Then, in this inaction of waiting, an attack of mere physical cowardice seized him, and he found himself imagining the mutilation and torture that perhaps awaited him personally in those deathly ditches. He tried to busy himself with the preparation of the few things that he would take with him, he tried to encourage himself by remembering that in his previous experiences there he had not been conscious of any fear, by telling himself that these were only the unreal anticipations that were always ready to pounce on one even before such mildly alarming affairs as a visit to the dentist; but in spite of his efforts, he found his hands growing clammy and cold at the thoughts which beset his brain. What if there happened to him what had happened to another junior officer who was close to him at the moment, when a fragment of shell turned him from a big gay boy into a writhing bundle at the bottom of the trench! He had lived for a couple of hours like that, moaning and crying out, “For God’s sake kill me!” What if, more mercifully, he was killed outright, so that he would lie there in peace till next night they removed his body, or perhaps had to bury him in the trench itself, with a dozen handfuls of soil cast over him! At that he suddenly realised how passionately he wanted to live, to escape from this infernal butchery, to be safe again, gloriously or ingloriously, it mattered not which, to be with Sylvia once more. He told himself that he had been an utter fool ever to re-enter the army again like this. He could certainly have got some appointment as dispatch-carrier or had himself attached to the headquarters staff, or even have shuffled out of it altogether. . . . But, above all, he wanted Sylvia; he wanted to be allowed to lead the ordinary human life, safely and securely, with the girl he loved, and with the musical pursuits that were his passion. He had hated soldiering in times of peace; he found now that he was terrified of it in times of war. He felt physically sick, as with cold hands and trembling knees he stood and waited, lighting cigarettes and throwing them away, in front of the kitchen fire, where the stewpot was already bubbling again for those lucky devils who would return here to-night. The Major of his company was sitting in the window watching him, though Michael was unaware of it. Suddenly he got up, and came across to the fire, and put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind it, Comber,” he said quietly. “We all get a touch of it sometimes. But you’ll find it will pass all right. It’s the waiting doing nothing that does it.” That touched Michael absolutely in the right place. “Thanks awfully, sir,” he said. “Not a bit. But it’s damned beastly while it lasts. You’ll be all right when we move. Don’t forget to take your fur coat up if you’ve got one. We shall have a cold night.”