It was in the Thiescourt Woods, I remember, that I saw Alan on his
return from convalescent leave. My section was in first line trenches
and his, in reserve, in the second line. I was on soup fatigue and was
going to the Chauffour Quarry when I saw him in front of me, walking
along alone. Throwing down the marmites (tin receptacles) with which
I was loaded, I rushed to shake him by the hand. He had, it seemed to
me, grown slightly thinner, his pale face seemed slightly paler, and
his eyes, his fine eyes with their far-away look, ever lost in distant
contemplation, were still as dreamy as ever.
He told me how sorry he was not to be still with me as he had been
transferred to the first section and I belonged to the third. But we
saw each other every day. He would recount the joys of his two months'
convalescent leave, and I shall never forget how one phrase was often
on his lips, "Life is only beautiful if divided between war and love.
They are the only two things truly great, fine and perfect, everything
else is but petty and mean. I have known love for the last few weeks
in all its beauty and now I want to make war, ... but fine war, a war
of bayonet charges, the desperate pursuit of an enemy in flight, the
entry as conqueror, with trumpets sounding, into a town that we have
delivered! Those are the delights of war! Where in civil life can be
found any emotion so fine and strong as those?"
And we would exalt our spirits with hopes of making an assault with the
bayonet, hopes that were not doomed to disappointment, for a few weeks
later we were to attack.