Everybody went mad. The men rushed out of the tents and shouted: "It's over—it's over—it's over!" I could hear one shrill voice screaming wildly: "No more bombs—no more shells—no more misery." The deafening clamour from innumerable throats was topped by the piercing blasts of whistles and the howling of catcalls. A huge bonfire was lit in the camp and sheets of flame shot skyward. The brilliant stars of signal-rockets rose and fell in tall parabolæ and lit up all the neighbourhood. The Sergeant-Major blew his whistle with the intention of restoring order. He was answered by a hullabaloo of derisive hoots and yells. He gave up the attempt and instead he headed a procession that marched into the town, banging empty tins and whirling trench-rattles. An anti-aircraft battery opened fire with blank charges. Aeroplanes flew overhead with all lights on.
Many of us went back into our tents and sang with all the power of our lungs.
So the war was over! The fact was too big to grasp all at once, but nevertheless I felt an extraordinarily serene satisfaction. Then someone said: "The people who've lost their sons and husbands—now's the time they'll feel it." The truth of this remark struck me with sudden violence. My serenity was broken and I looked into the blackness beneath it. I knew what I was going to see, but, nevertheless, I looked, in spite of myself, and saw innumerable rotting dead that lay unburied in all postures on the bare, shell-tossed earth. A horror of death such as I had never known before came upon me—a crushing, annihilating horror that seemed to impart a fiendish character to the shouting and singing in the camp, as though millions of demoniac spirits were howling and dancing with devilish glee over the accomplishment of the greatest iniquity ever known. At the same time I felt ashamed of not joining in the general jubilation, and bitterly disappointed that my own thoughts—always my worst enemies—should obsess me at this supreme hour. But I knew that the war had lasted too long and that the world's misery had been too great ever to be shaken off. I also knew that all the dead had died in vain. In order to escape from my intolerable meditations I sat up and began to talk to my neighbour:
"I suppose it'll be read out officially to-morrow morning?"
"Sure—and we'll get a day off at least."
We continued to talk of commonplace things. It was several hours after midnight and the uproar was dying down a little. I felt sleepy and something like contentment was beginning to steal over me once again.
Reveillé did not sound until nine o'clock on the Monday morning. The whistle blew for parade. There would, of course, be an official announcement that the Armistice had been signed and perhaps a letter of thanks to the "splendid troops who had won the war" (which would bore us extremely) and a holiday (which would be welcomed with loud cheers).
We paraded. The Sergeant-Major addressed us:
"I'm sorry, boys, but nothing official's coom through. You must go to work as usual. It's a damned shame, I know, but I can't help it. I expect the message'll coom during the day and you're sure to get to-morrow off."
There was a murmur in the ranks, but bewilderment deprived us of the power of taking concerted action. A sudden fear seized me—could last night's celebrations have been the result of a false alarm?