For my eventual survival from the predicament I now found myself in, I can only give credit to the good physical condition I was in when my injuries befell me, the injuries that were to put me out of the big game for good, send me to “Blighty” and to get me honors from King and country reverently to be prized and which in my greatest imaginings I had not dreamed of winning. A practical, regular soldier doesn’t frequently dream of such things. It is your amateur soldier who is most filled with such aspirations. Not that he hasn’t a right to entertain them, coddle them and try to act on them for they have led many new-made soldiers into great and brave accomplishments. I don’t mean such dreams and aspirations are bad for a man. They are distinctly good. I only mean that with regulars like myself soldiering is his cold, hard business and he isn’t given to enhancing it with romantic imaginings. But now I was to take a turn at imaginings myself--the wildest! I suppose I fought again at least a hundred times my duel with the two Germans who grew to giant-size in some of my dreams and always their countenances were a thing of horror--pale eyes shining through grime, stubbled chins and lips, cracked lips apart with blackened, fang-like teeth showing. Sometimes they beat me. They would have me down and be kneeling on my chest. And one of them would have a knife out with which to slash my throat. And I’d come out of such a horror, writhing and screaming. Then again I would suffer the keenest tortures because of the roaring of guns--imaginary guns at that, I suppose they were, smashed at my ears and racked my burning head. I would find myself screaming at them to desist. Then I had fine, serene dreams when I traveled through a great land--I can’t tell what land, merely Dreamland--that was all at peace. There were no ugly shell marks in it. There were no frightened, helpless women, no whimpering children. There was bright sunlight, huge herds of peaceful cattle, and I passed (I don’t know how--in auto, horse-back, aëroplane or on wings) beautiful, happy old farm-houses, saw playing children, and the only time I had war in my mind was when I came upon a group of old men at the fire of a famous, ancient inn I knew in Ireland. And what they were having to say about the big fight was to marvel that such a great tragedy could ever have occurred. And I stood beside them and wept at my memories of the ghastly war.