The revolutionists arrived at Mainz on Friday, November 8th, and the first intimation we received of their presence was the arrival on morning parade of the German adjutant in a civilian suit. He had apparently spent the previous evening at Köln, where all officers had been advised either to leave the town as speedily as possible, or else change into mufti. This gallant officer did both, and for the first time since we were captured, we were dismissed without an _appel_. During the whole of that day the camp was possessed of rumours. At any moment we were told the revolutionaries might present themselves before the gates; we should be in their hands; our whiskered sentries would have neither the power nor the inclination to protect us. Thoughts of Bolshevism worked disquietingly within our minds; we pictured a sanguinary contest between the military and socialist parties, and we were a little nervous lest the caprice of the moment should ally us with one or other of the warring parties. The town was clearly under the power of the Red Flag. German officers were not allowed in the streets in uniform, and it was a pleasant sight to see the General robing himself in a suit of mustard-coloured cloth before venturing beyond the gate. But I must own that personally I was considerably alarmed about my safety. However deep-rooted may be one’s objections to constitutions and their rulers, however much one may sympathise with the ἰδέα of rebellion, one does prefer to view these calamitous upheavals either from the safety of a hearthrug, or from a distance of two hundred yards. And it seemed more than likely that, on the signing of the armistice, we should have to beat a very hasty retreat which would involve the dumping of the greater part of our kit; and we had received no information of what we might take with us. This was very disquieting. During the eight months of my confinement I had written some two-thirds of a novel, and had no wish to discover that manuscript was contraband. Tarrant viewed my troubles with complete composure. “My dear Waugh,” he said, “as I’ve told you more than once before, that novel is quite unprintable, and if it is published, it will plunge both you and your publisher into disaster. You’d do much better to leave it here.” But with this I could naturally not agree, and in a state of some perturbation carried my heart-searchings to the German adjutant. He received me most affectionately. “Ah, Mr. Waugh,” he said, “things are not as serious as all that. It will be all right. If, of course, you had been exchanged, it would have been a different thing. But now you can take what you like, and I am sure that anything you write would be quite harmless.”