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Tomlinson, the great Tomlinson, was with me, and shook his head.
"It isn't true," he said. "I don't believe it. . . We're mad, that's
all! . . . The whole world is mad, so why should we be sane?"
We stared after the man who went into the ruin of Kemmel, to the noise
of gun-fire, in evening dress, without an overcoat, through a blizzard
of snow.
A little farther down the road we passed a signboard on the edge of a
cratered field. New words had been painted on it in good Roman
letters.
Cimetiere reserve
Tomlinson, the only Tomlinson, regarded it gravely and turned to me
with a world of meaning in his eyes. Then he tapped his forehead and
laughed.
"Mad!" he said. "We're all mad!"


XVIII

In that winter of discontent there was one great body of splendid men
whose spirits had sunk to zero, seeing no hope ahead of them in that
warfare of trenches and barbed wire. The cavalry believed they were
"bunkered" forever, and that all their training and tradition were
made futile by the digging in of armies.


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