Winds of the world, give answer! They are whimpering
to and fro—
And what should they know of England, who only
England know?
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume
and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at
the English Flag.
Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake,
But a soul goes out on the East wind that died for
England's sake—
Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid—
Because on the bones of the English the English flag is
stayed.
CHAPTER IV
"THE REGIMENT"
On the Tuesday a board of doctors passed Jim Denver fit for General Service, having first given him the option of a month's home service if he liked. Two days after he turned up at the depôt of his regiment, where he found men in various stages of convalescence—light duty, ordinary duty at home, and fit to go out like himself. One or two he knew, and most of them he didn't. There were a few old regular officers and a large number of very new ones—who were being led in the way they should go.
But there is little to tell of the time he spent waiting to go out. This is not a diary of his life—not even an account of it; it is merely an attempt to portray a state of mind—an outlook on life engendered by war, in a man whom war had caused to think for the first time.