Something in the tone of his voice told me that he hated himself for that.
“Rather a pity,” I mumbled.
“War,” he said. “Bloody war.”
There was a candle burning on the wooden bench on which he leaned his elbow, and by the light of it I saw that his eyes were bloodshot. There was a haggard look on his face.
“It must need some nerve,” I said, awkwardly, “to go out so often in No Man’s Land. Real pluck.”
He stared at me, as though surprised, and then laughed harshly.
“Pluck? What’s that? I’m scared stiff, half the time. Do you think I like it?”
He seemed to get angry, was angry, I think.
“Do any of us like it? These damn things that blow men to bits, make rags of them, tear their bowels out, and their eyes? Or to live on top of a mine-crater, as we are now, never knowing when you’re going up in smoke and flame? If you like that sort of thing yourself you can take my share. I have never met a man who did.”
Yet when Brand was taken out of the trenches—by a word spoken over the telephone from corps Headquarters—because of his knowledge of German and his cousinship to a lady who was a friend of the Corps Commander’s niece, he was miserable and savage. I met him many times after that as an Intelligence officer at the corps cages, examining prisoners on days of battle.