“And if she does,” the Major took me up, “that wouldn’t be the worst calamity that could befall her. Death’s not the final tragedy we used to think it; very often it’s the new start. Her life was probably gray enough before we found her—a peasant girl, who had been used by men and would probably be used by men to the end of the chapter. What kind of a career has she ahead of her if we throw her down now? There’s nothing but devastated country behind us. If I told her tomorrow that she’d got to buzz off, where would she go or who would care what happened? No, she’s going to stay with us; and if she comes through it all, we’ll make ourselves responsible for her and take her back with us to Canada. I tell you what it is, the more I see of that girl, the more grateful I am that she’s with us. She’s restored my ideal of women.——You think I’m talking like an ass, no doubt; but from Heming down, there’s not an unmarried man in the battery who’s not more or less in love with her. No, my boy, until we’ve been found out and have received direct orders to get rid of her, Suzette stops.” “And Bully Beef?” I asked. “And Bully Beef,” he answered. “He can always be left behind with the transport when we’re in action. Old Dan Turpin will look after him. He considers him his own kid already.” I’ve been sitting here thinking over this conversation, and especially over one sentence, “Death’s not the final tragedy; very often it’s the new start.” Those words really explain our indifference in the face of shell-fire and torture. We no longer fear the separation of the spirit from the body. We don’t regard the reparation as extinction; we view it with quiet curiosity and suspect that it may only mean beginning afresh. Perhaps we’re exceptional in our battery, inasmuch as there are so many who would welcome the opportunity to begin afresh. Tubby certainly must be glad of it; going on the way he was, the noble part of him would never have had a chance. This war has made so many of us aware of a nobility which we never knew we possessed. We’re a little afraid that we shall lose it, if we live through to the corpulent days of peace. We would rather go west at the moment when we are acting up to our most decent standards. It’s odd, but when threatened by death, it’s the fear of life that assails us. The dread of old age grips us by the throat; the terror of old temptations, which of late we have been too athletic in soul to gratify, confronts us. The gray, unheroic monotony of unmerited failures and unworthy successes daunts us. We dread lest when war ends, the old grasping selfishnesses may re-assert themselves. To-day we have the opportunity to go out like vikings, perishing in a storm. To live a few years longer only to shuffle off, will not be rewarding. At this point I have to leave off. A runner has just come in bringing us word that we are to be prepared to push forward at dawn. VII