“It ages you—” he interrupted, looking at me.
“It’s hideous—horrible. I wake up at night even now and then and feel myself back in it. You can’t imagine it. I can’t describe it. You go in because you’re a soldier and a man,—that’s all. You expect to die—you know you’re going to die; all there is to it is a blind rage for killing and a prayer to die quickly when it comes.”
My hand was trembling and my eyes must have taken on that strange far-off glaze which we bring back out of battle, for he stopped me with a sudden grip on my arm.
“Here! That’s doing you no good. We’ll talk of other things.”
I looked at my hand, which was shaking, and feeling an attack of nerves impending, I rose hurriedly and left the room.
“It takes you like that,” I said, when I had fought it out and returned. “I’m sorry. I’m much better now. I don’t get it often.”
He looked at me gravely.
“Good heavens, man! Are you going back in that condition?”
“It won’t take a month to get me in shape.”
“It still attracts you?”