"I'm still a rebel," Andy returned. "The war would have made me one if I hadn't been before. Still, when you are fool enough to volunteer for a job, you can't very well lie down on it. There were times when I felt like it, though. It was a dirty job, eh?"
"Rather," Rod agreed. "Remember the time we had a drink in the Strand and talked about the big show?"
Andy nodded.
"I was thinking about that as I came past the Province," he drawled. "If it were worth while expressing an opinion, I'd say the same—only more so."
"Let's stroll up to the Vancouver and sit down and gas awhile?" Rod suggested.
They found comfortable chairs in a quiet corner of the great hotel. Their talk covered Europe, politics, certain phases of trench fighting, and came back at last from generalities tinged with pessimism to the particular, to themselves.
"What are you going to do after you're demobilized?" Rod asked. It was not, on his part, an idle question.
"I don't know." Andy shook his head. "I'll never sling cable again, that's sure. You need all your fingers for that."
His eyes rested speculatively on the mutilated hand.
"Long before I lost my fingers," he continued, "I used to say to myself that if I got out of it alive, I'd never work for any man again—I'd never have anybody's collar round my neck. The army put that into me. It jarred my old idea of men voluntarily coöperating for the common good or any other purpose. The army—all the armies—were made up of picked men. Eighty per cent. of 'em fell into two categories; they had to be led, or they had to be driven. If there was no one to lead or drive, they ran round in circles when anything happened. So I made up my mind to be a leader or a driver—to play the game the way the rest do, who manage to beat the game. I was so damned sick of orders and discipline. Orders that were stupid, or vicious, or simply issued as an exhibition of authority. Discipline that went beyond its logical purpose of securing cohesive action and became merely a whip to lash a lot of tired unhappy men. Nobody minded the actual fighting so much. That's what you were there for; you expected it; you got used to it. You took your chances without making a fuss, even if now and then your stomach sort of turned. No, the dirt and drudgery were worse than the danger. And to a fellow like me the sight and sound of fussy brass hats laying more stress on recognition of their rank and dignity, the unanimity with which they implied that they were It—hell, you know how everybody below the rank of a battalion commander felt about that. They could do anything they liked to you, say the worst they could think, punish you for somebody else's mistakes. And you couldn't say a damned word. You couldn't even look sour. That was insubordination. No. I didn't mind the war so much—it was the army—the whole fabric of the military system.