Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being made the victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and it was not of his own desire that he was an officer in the Hibernian light Infantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen whom he never quite understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. Power was an expert in the art of “pulling the legs” of innocent people. Waterhouse had several times found himself looking like a fool without knowing exactly why.
“What I call a civilized war,” said Power, “is waged in fine weather for one thing, and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants show some regard for the other side’s feelings and don’t try to make things as nasty for each other as they can. The business is done in a picturesque way, with flags and drums and speeches. There are negotiations and flags of truce and mutual respect for gallant foemen—instead of this d____d coldblooded, scientific slaughter.”
“No war was ever like that,” said Waterhouse. “Novelists and other silly fools write about war as if it were a kind of sport. But it never was really.”
“The last war I was in, was,” said Power.
“I don’t believe you ever were in a war before,” said Waterhouse. “You’re not old enough to have gone to South Africa.”
“All the same I was in a war,” said Power, “though I didn’t actually fight. I was wounded at the time and couldn’t. But I was there. Our Irish war at Easter, 1916.”
“That footy little rebellion,” said Waterhouse.
“You may call it what you like,” said Power, “but it was a much better war than this one from every point of view, except mere size. It was properly conducted on both sides.”
“I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it,” said Waterhouse, “and if you do I can’t stop you; but you needn’t suppose I’ll believe a word you say.”
“The truth of this narrative,” said Power, “will compel belief even in the most sceptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sick leave, wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got months of sick leave, before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes for officers and kept them there. I had three months’ leave that time and I spent it with my people in Ballymahon.”