Combed Out Part 22

"That's all you can think about, getting drunk--you dirty little blackguard! You don't deserve to have peace, you don't! b.l.o.o.d.y lot of fools--all shouting and singing and wanting to get drunk! They ought to have more respect for the dead! The war's over, and we're b.l.o.o.d.y lucky to get out of it unharmed, but it's nothing to shout about when there's hundreds and thousands of our mates dead or maimed for life."

"Don't talk b.l.o.o.d.y sentimental rot--call yourself a soldier? You ought to be a b.l.o.o.d.y parson!"

"I don't call myself a soldier--it's a b.l.o.o.d.y insult to be called a soldier. I'm not a b.l.o.o.d.y patriot either--I reckon patriotism's a b.l.o.o.d.y curse. I kept out of the army as long as I could, but they combed me out (that's their polite way of putting it!), and shoved me into khaki, but they never made a soldier of me! I've never been any use to them! I only worked when they forced me to. I've been more expense and trouble to them than I'm worth. I haven't helped to win this wicked war, and I'm proud of it too! Sentimental rot be d.a.m.ned--if everyone had been my way of thinking there wouldn't have been a war, no, not in any country. The war's won, I know, and I'm sorry for it. But Fritz has come off best, not us. He's lost the war, but he's found his b.l.o.o.d.y soul! I'll tell the civvies something about war when I get home--I'll tell 'em we rob the dead, I'll tell 'em...."

"For G.o.d's sake chuck it...."

"All right, I'll chuck it--I know it's no b.l.o.o.d.y good talking to fellows like you. Go and get drunk, then, do as you b.l.o.o.d.y well please. That's all you're fit for...."

He flung himself back into bed and wrapped himself up in his blanket and did not say another word.