“There was one phrase,” I resumed, “in the daily communiqués that used to strike us rather out there;” it was, “Nothing of importance to record on the rest of the front.” I believe that a hundred years hence this phrase will be repeated in the history books. There will be a passage like this: “Save for the gigantic effort of Germany to break through the French lines at Verdun, nothing of importance occurred on the western front between September, 1915, and the opening of the Somme offensive on the 1st of July, 1916.” And this will be believed, unless men have learnt to read history aright by then. For the river of history is full of waterfalls that attract the day excursionist--such as battles, and laws, and the deaths of kings; whereas the spirit of the river is not in the waterfalls. There are men who were wounded in the Somme battle, who had only seen a few weeks of war. I have yet to see a waterfall; but I have learned something of the spirit of the deep river in eight months of “nothing of importance.” This, then, is the book that I have written. It is the spirit of the war as it came to me, first in big incoherent impressions, later as a more intelligible whole. Perhaps it will seem that the first chapters are somewhat light in tone and inclined to gloss over the terrible side of War. But that is just what happens; at first, the interest and adventure are paramount, and it is only after a time, only after all the novelty has worn away, that one gets the real proportion. If the first chapters do not bite deep, remember that this was my experience. This book does not claim to be always sensational or thrilling. One claim only I make for it: from end to end it is the truth. The events recorded are real and true in every detail. I have nowhere exaggerated; for in this war there is nothing more terrible than the truth. All the persons mentioned are also real, though I have thought it better to give them pseudonyms. _January, 1917._ NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE CHAPTER I FIRST IMPRESSIONS “Good-bye!” “Good-bye. Don’t forget to send me that Hun helmet!” “All right! Good-bye!” * * * * * The train had long ago recovered from the shock of its initial jerk; a long steady grinding noise came up from the carriage wheels, as though they had recovered breath and were getting into their stride for Folkestone, regardless of the growing clatter of the South-Eastern rhythm;--if, indeed, so noble a word may be used for the noise made by the wheels as they passed over the rail-joints of this distinguished line. “Don’t believe it’s a good thing having one’s people to see you off,” said Terry, whose people had accompanied him in large numbers to Charing Cross. “They _will_ come, though,” remarked Crowley very wisely.