CHAPTERXVIII

chapterxviii

inthoselongdaysoftrenchwarfareandstationarylinesitwasboredomthatwastheworstmaladyofthemind;alarge,overwhelmingboredomtothousandsofmenwhowereinexilefromthenormalinterestsoflifeandfromtheactivitiesofbrain-work;anintolerable,abominableboredom,sappingthewill-power,themoralcode,theintellect;aboredomfromwhichthereseemednoescapeexceptbydeath,noreliefexceptbyvice,noprobableorpossiblechangeinitsdrearyroutine.itwasbadenoughinthetrenches,wheremenlookedacrosstheparapettothesamecornerofhelldaybyday,tothesamedeadbodiesrottingbytheedgeofthesamemine-crater,tothesameoldsand-bagsintheenemy'sline,totheblastedtreeslicedbyshell-fire,theupturnedrailway—truckofwhichonlythemetalremained,thedistantfringeoftreeslikegallowsonthesky-line,thebrokenspireofachurchwhichcouldbeseenintheroundoofthetelescopewhentheweatherwasnottoomisty.in“quiet”sectionsofthelinetheonlyvariationtotheroutinewasthenumberofcasualtiesdaybyday,bycasualshell-fireorsnipers'bullets,andthatbecamepartoftheboredom.“whatcasualties?”askedtheadjutantinhisdugout.

“twokilled,threewounded,sir.”

“verywell...youcango.”

asaluteinthedoorwayofthedugout,agroanfromtheadjutantlightinganothercigarette,leaningwithhiselbowonthedealtable,staringatthegutteringofthecandlebyhisside,atthepileofformsinfrontofhim,attheglintoflightonthesteelhelmethangingbyitsstraponanailneartheshelfwherehekepthissafety-razor,flash—lamp,love-letters(inanoldcigar-box),soap,whisky—bottle(almostemptynow),andanunreadnovel.

“hell!...whatalife!”

buttherewasalwaysworktodo,andoddincidents,andfrights,andresponsibilities.

itwasworse—thisboredom—formenbehindthelines;inlorrycolumnswhichwentfromrail-headtodumpeverydamnedmorning,andbackagainbythemiddleofthemorning,andthennothingelsetodoforalltheday,inacrampedlittlebilletwithasulkywomaninthekitchen,andsquealingchildrenintheyard,andastenchofmanurethroughthesmallwindow.adulllifeforanactorwhohadtouredinenglandandamerica(likeoneimetdazedandstupefiedbyyearsofboredom—payingtoomuchforsafety),orforabarristerwhohadmanybriefsbeforethewarandnowfoundhismemorygoing,thoughayoungman,becauseofthenarrowlimitsofhislifebetweenoneflemishvillageandanother,whichwasthelengthofhislorrycolumnandofhisadventureofwar.nothingeverhappenedtobreakthemonotony—notevenshell-fire.soitwasalsoinsmalltownslikehesdin,st.-pol,bruay,lillers—ahundredotherswhereofficersstayedforyearsinchargeofmotor-repairshops,ordnance-stores,laborbattalions,administrationoffices,claimcommissions,graves'registration,agricultureforsoldiers,allkindsofjobsconnectedwiththatlifeofwar,butnotexciting.

notexciting.sofrightfulinboredomthatmenweretemptedtotaketodrink,tolookaroundforunattachedwomen,togambleatcardswithanypoordevillikethemselves.thoseweremostboredwhoweremostvirtuous.forthem,withanidealintheirsouls,therewasnopossibilityofrelief(forvirtueisnotitsownreward),unlesstheyweremystics,assomebecame,whofoundgodgoodcompanyandneedednootherhelp.theyhadrareluck,thosefellowswithanastoundingfaithwhichroseabovetheironyandthebrutalityofthatbusinessbeingdoneinthetrenches,buttherewerefewofthem.

evenwithhoursofleisure,menwhohadbeen“bookish”couldnotread.thatwasacommonphenomenon.icouldreadhardlyatall,foryears,andthousandswerelikeme.themost“exciting”novelwasdullstuffupagainstthatworldconvulsion.whatdidtheromanceoflovemean,thelittletorturesofoneman'sheart,oronewoman's,troubledintheirmating,whenthousandsofmenwerebeingkilledandvastpopulationswereinagony?history—greekorromanormedieval—whatwastheuseofreadingthatoldstuff,nowthatworldhistorywasbeingmadewitharush?poetry—poorpoetswiththeirloveofbeauty!whatdidbeautymatter,nowthatitlaydeadinthesouloftheworld,underthefilthofbattlefields,andthedirtofhateandcruelty,andthelawoftheapelikeman?no—wecouldnotread;buttalkedandtalkedabouttheoldphilosophyoflife,andthestructureofsociety,anddemocracyandlibertyandpatriotismandinternationalism,andbrotherhoodofmen,andgod,andchristianethics;andthentalkednomore,becauseallwordswerefutile,andjustbroodedandbrooded,aftersearchingthedailypaper(twodaysold)foranykindofhopeandlight,notfindingeither.