One day he told me what was on his mind. He had had no news of his family since leaving home five months before. At first he had not worried, knowing that letters took a long time. But an answer was overdue by this time—others had heard from home. "Every day," he said, "there are letters, but none for me." I could proffer sympathy but not, alas! advice, and I hadn't the heart to tell him that Commines was in the thick of the fighting, and had probably been blown to pieces long ago. His wife and children might be safe, but they were almost certainly homeless refugees. From that day on he used often to come and talk to me about his happy life before the war, growing sadder and sadder as the weeks passed and still he had no news.
I shall always remember Henry's pathetic little figure by the gate on the morning I left the prison, his baggy trousers more discoloured than ever, his enormous right hand at the salute, and his lips twisted into that wistful smile of his. I wonder what has happened to his wife and little daughters. I wonder if he or I or any one will ever know.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Of the contents of this book, Snatty and Five-Four-Eight appeared in Blackwood's, and were both written before the war broke out—a fact which I mention with the selfish object of excusing myself for various technical errors therein: Henry appeared in The New Statesman. My thanks are due to the editors of both these journals for kindly allowing me to republish the stories. The remainder have all appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, to the editor of which I am deeply indebted for his unfailing courtesy and assistance.
Flanders,
November, 1916.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LTD., LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND.