PROLOGUE xi 



blue, high above white hursts of shrapnel. 

 Only the fairy spell ivas broken^ its glamour 

 gone — one fell athud to thoughts of wreck 

 and ruin, to madness, ugliness and pain ; 

 to dust-choked roads, crowded with sweat- 

 stained, grim-faced men ; to the weariness of 

 their marching. . . . What right had I to 

 golden- hour ed oblivion in such times as these f 

 Then under the thorn-bush came again a 

 "plop " with following circle, as if to say 

 good-bye. But I did not regret that old 

 trout a bit. Thank heaven that he still lives ! 

 — only a Mills-bomb could take him in his 

 fastness. . . . Besides, we had both had our 

 little bit of fun ; each realised that patch of 

 starwort weed five yards below his tail — a 

 sure and certain sanctuary. 



So from the short-lived peace of water- 

 meadows I turned to glaring highroad, 

 where in the dust the endless lorries passed. 

 Beyond, the camp, the incinerator s reek^ the 

 trampled horselines, the petrol - cans, the 

 dumps. The guard-tent, its barbed encircling 



