If there’s one kind of scenery I like more than anything, it’s a winter landscape of rolling hills and evergreen trees laden with snow. Usually the sight of a snowy outdoors is very comforting—but not so that day. Every time I noticed the snow—and it had been falling thick and fast since early Sunday morning—it reminded me that Leon had to get back here that afternoon, and between Vyvy and the snowstorm, there was absolutely no telling whether he’d show up or not. So there was nothing very comfy about that snowstorm. Of course, it would do something like this at just this time. My luck again! I was on the go all morning. General Backett certainly did believe in keeping busy. I discovered that morning that he was too old for regular duty and no doubt that was why he worked so hard: he evidently wanted to demonstrate his ability to stand the wear and tear, in the hope that he would get some kind of an active command after we reached France. “We,” did I say? Which just goes to prove how easy it is to lose one’s identity: I kept thinking that I was going with the General, instead of Leon. It seemed perfectly natural, as if I had been expecting it for months. Well, I wasn’t going, so what was the sense of these foolish visions? And yet, it did seem perfectly natural for me to be chasing around getting my equipment checked and replenished and then leaving it spread out for inspection. Even that morning at first call, I rolled out as pretty as you please, grabbed a towel and rushed for the water-trough, scrubbed my teeth, washed my face in the cold water, emitted a few curses just to keep up with the other fellows, rushed back, combed my hair (that was rather awkward, I imagine) and ran out with the rest of them to the mess hall. That much was good fun, even though I already had noticed the snowstorm. From breakfast on, however, my worries piled up just about as fast as the snow heaped up outside. On the go every minute, doing a lot of things that I knew nothing whatever about, chasing errands, reporting this to that officer and that to this officer and running all over the place like a chicken sans head. All of which I would have enjoyed, if it weren’t for this doubt about Leon. This doubt increased steadily, for some inexplicable reason. I could just see him at home there with Vyvy, hating like the very devil to think of going back. He probably watched that snowstorm with fascination, and kept putting off and putting off the moment of his departure. I could understand how he felt: he hated the camp and he hated to leave his Vyvy, and I knew he spent all morning trying to decide whether the outfit really would leave that night. I finally decided to telephone him, if he hadn’t come by noon, but when noon came I found that I couldn’t get out until later and had to put off that project.