The reality is a sombre business of marching and watching, nights without sleep and days without food; retracing one’s steps in order to execute the plan of the brain to which a man is but one effective rifle out of many thousands, marching for days and days, seeing nothing more exciting than a burnt-out house and the marching men on either side and to front and rear--and then the contact with the enemy. A vicious crack from somewhere, or the solid boom of a piece of artillery; somewhere away to the front or flank is the enemy, and his pieces do damage in the ranks; there is a searching for cover, some orders are given, perhaps a comrade lies utterly still, and one knows that that man will not move any more; there is a desperate sense of ineffectiveness, of anger at this cowardly (as it seems) trick of hitting when one cannot hit back. There is the satisfaction of getting the range and firing, with results that may be guessed but cannot be known accurately by the man who fires; there is the curious thrill that comes when an angrily singing bullet passes near, and one realises that one is under fire from the enemy. In a normal action, there is the sense of disaster, even of defeat when one’s side may in reality be winning, for one sees men dying, wounded, lying dead--one knows the damage the enemy has inflicted, but has no idea of the damage ones own force has inflicted in return. Often, when it begins to be apparent that the enemy is nearly beaten, there comes the order to retire; one does not understand the order, but, with a sullen sense of resentment at it, retires, ducking at the whizzing of a shell, though not all the ducking in the world would avail if the shell were truly aimed at the one who ducks, or starting back to avoid a bullet that whizzed by--as if by starting back one could get out of the way of a bullet!