Harry went to France again a month later, after the futile kind of medical examination he had foretold. I had a letter from him from the Base, and after that there was silence. I even began to hunt about in the casualty lists, but he was never there. And seven weeks later they let me go out again myself, to the astonishment of all but the military doctors. At the Base I heard of Harry. Some one had been wanted for some kind of job down there, an officer to instruct the Details in the mysteries of Iron Rations, or something of the sort. Harry, happening to be there at the time, and pleasing the eye of the aldermanic officer in command of our Base Depot, had been graciously appointed to the post. But he had caused a considerable flutter in the tents of the mighty by flatly declining it, and stating insanely that he preferred to go up to the line. This being still the one topic of conversation in the camp, I did not linger there longer than was absolutely necessary. Infantry Base Depots are bad places, and that one was very bad; you had worse food, worse treatment, and worse company than you ever had in the line--much discomfort, and no dignity. I never understood why officers should be treated with such contempt whenever there were a number of them together. If you went about by yourself, or with another officer or two, you had a certain amount of politeness and consideration from military officials; but as soon as you got with a 'herd' of officers you were doomed--you were dirt. If the intention at the Base was to make the line seem a haven of refuge and civility, it was highly successful as far as I was concerned.... I got back to the battalion under the usual conditions ... a long jog in the mess-cart under the interminable dripping poplars, with a vile wind lashing the usual rain over the usual flat fields, where the old women laboured and stooped as usual, and took no notice of anything. The heart sinks a little as you look at the shivering dreariness of it all. And if it is near the line you hope secretly that the battalion is 'out' for at least a few days more, that you may have just two days to get used to this beastliness again, and not be met by some cheery acclimatized ass with a 'Glad to see you, old son--just in time--going up to-night, doing a "stunt" on Tuesday!' Yet, as you come to the village, there is a strange sense of home-coming that comes with the recognition of familiar things--limbers clattering and splashing along, and the regimental postman trudging back with the mail, and C Company cooker steaming pleasantly under an outhouse, and odd men with waterproof sheets draped over the shoulders, wet and glistening.... To-day I was lucky, for the battalion was a long way back, resting, so that this home-coming sense was strong upon me. And I wanted to see Harry.