Harry had black moods. All these torments accumulated and broke his
spirit. He lost his keenness, his cheerfulness, and his health. Once a
man starts on that path, his past history finds him out, like an old
wound. Some men take to drink and are disgraced. In Harry's case it was
Gallipoli. No man who had a bad time in that place ever 'got over' it in
body or soul. And when France or some other campaign began to work upon
them, it was seen that there was something missing in their resisting
power; they broke out with old diseases and old fears ... the legacies
of Gallipoli.
Harry grew pale, and nervous, and hunted to look at; and he had a touch
of dysentery. But the worst of the poison was in his mind and heart. For
a long time, as I have said, since he felt the beginning of those old
doubts, and saw himself starting downhill, he had striven anxiously to
keep his name high in men's opinion; for all liked him and believed in
him. He had been ready for anything, and done his work with a
conscientious pride. But now this bitterness was on him, he seemed to
have ceased to care what happened or what men thought of him. He had
unreasonable fits of temper; he became distrustful and cynical. I
thought then, sometimes, of the day when he had looked at Troy and
wanted to be like Achilles. It was painful to me to hear him talking as
Eustace used to talk, suspicious, intolerant, incredulous.... I thought
how Harry had once hated that kind of talk, and it was most significant
of the change that had come over the good companion I had known. Yet
sometimes, when the sun shone, and once when we rode back into Albert
and dined quietly alone, that mask of bitterness fell away; there were
flashes of the old cheerful Harry, and I had hopes. I hoped Philpott
would be killed....