“It’s all very well. You don’t seem to see the serious part of all this—waste!”
“Waste, my dear fellow!” And to Dormer the harsh, cheerful voice had all the officious familiarity of a starling, gibing at one from an apple tree. “Waste is not serious. It is nature’s oldest joke. It used to be called Chaos. From it we came. Back to it we shall go. It will be called Immortality. The Graves Commission will give it a number, a signboard, and a place on the map, but it will be Immortality none the less. From Titans to tight ’uns, ‘each in his narrow grave.’”
“Oh, chuck it,” said Dormer, disgusted and having no memories of that quotation. “You’ve evidently never been in charge of a burying party!”
“I have. I did twelve months in the line, as a platoon commander. How long did you do that?”
“Twelve months about!”
“I believe you, where thousands wouldn’t. Twelve months was about the limit. In twelve months, the average Infantry subaltern got a job, or got a blighty! I know all about it!”
“Then you ought to know better than to speak so. It’s not a joke!”
“My dear Dormer, if it were not a grim joke it would be utterly unbearable.”
“I disagree entirely. It’s that point of view that we are suffering from so much. You don’t seem to see that this army is not an army of soldiers. It is an army of civilians enlisted under a definite contract. They aren’t here for fun.”
“Oh, come, Dormer, don’t you believe in enjoying the War?”