What could he mean? What was I expected to know, to be participating in?
I shall never learn; for at that moment the tram drew up, and with an unexpectedly hearty handshake and hopes of meeting again soon, this protector of the Belgians alighted and disappeared into the crowd.
Who could he be? "Après la guerre"—what did it mean? I wonder.
February 6th. My diary draws to a close. To-day we went for the last time to the little church on the hill.
What a number of illusions have been dispelled since that October morning in 1914 when we first crept in late from the hospital, indoor uniform and all, just as we had come off duty!
The place had been packed then with warriors caked with the mud of Flanders. How their voices had resounded! For in the hearts of all was the cherished belief, "It is all too awful. It can't last long."
"Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away." What a significance the familiar words had taken on in the unfamiliar surroundings.
And to-day? For congregation a few tired nurses, an odd officer or two, some civilians over here visiting their wounded and dying.
A service devoid of the burning enthusiasm of other days, a sermon that did not even mention war, or spur us on to greater efforts, or vindicate our cause, but dealing with obscure ritual and spiritual difficulties not likely to waylay most of us.
Undoubtedly our illusions are past. We have learnt our limitations as a nation; discovered the inherent nobility of many whose capacities had hitherto lacked opportunity, seen how war brings out the best and the worst of every character, and noted that at the bed-rock of all men lies the primitive savage.