At five o'clock the major was delivered almost onto the office stoop by the general commanding the brigade's Harry Tate. Just before sunset two lorries drove onto the aerodrome; watching from his hut he saw infantry with rifles and tin hats get down and parade for a moment on the dusty grass behind the office and then disperse in squads and at sunset the patrol of flight commanders and deputies which had gone out at noon in the similitude of B Flight had not returned, three times longer than any patrol ever stayed out or than any S. E. could stay up on its petrol. And he dined with a mess (the major was not present though a few of the older men-including the infantry officer-were; he didn't know where they had been nor when returned) half of whom he knew knew nothing either and the other half he didn't know how much they knew or cared-a meal which was not long before the adju-tant got up and stopped just long enough to say, not speaking to Monday the older people at alclass="underline" 'You aren't confined to quarters. Just put it that almost any place you can think of is out of bounds,'
'Even the village?' someone said.
'Even Villeneuve Blanche, sink of iniquity though it be not. You might all go home with Levine and curl up with his book. That's where he should be.' Then he stopped again. 'That means the hangars too.'
'Why should we go to the hangars this time of night?' one said.
'I dont know,' the adjutant said. 'Dont. ' Then the others dis-persed but not he, he was still sitting there after the orderlies had cleared the mess for the night and still there when the motor car came up, not stopping at the mess but going on around to the office and through the thin partition he heard people enter the office and then the voices: the major and Bridesman and the other two flight commanders and no S. E. had landed on this aerodrome after dark even if he hadn't heard the car. Nor could he have heard what the voices were saying even if he had tried, just sitting there when the voices stopped short and a second later the door opened and the adjutant paused an instant then came on, pulling the door after him, saying: 'Get along to your hut,'
'Right,' he said, rising. But the adjutant came on into the mess, shutting the door behind him; his voice was really kind now.
'Why dont you let it alone?'
'I am,' he said. 'I don't know how to do anything else because I dont know how it can be over if it's not over nor how it can be not over if it's over-'
'Go to your hut,' the adjutant said. He went out into the dark-ness, the silence, walking on in the direction of the huts as long as anyone from the mess might still see him, then giving himself another twenty steps for good measure before he turned away to-ward the hangars, thinking how his trouble was probably very simple, really: he had never heard silence before; he had been thir-teen, almost fourteen, when the guns began, but perhaps even at fourteen you still could not bear silence: you denied it at once and immediately began to try to do something about it as children of six or ten do: as a last resort, when even noise failed, fleeing into closets, cupboards, corners under beds or pianos, lacking any other closeness and darkness in which to escape it; walking around the corner of the hangar as the challenge came, and saw the crack of light under the hangar doors which were not only closed but pad-locked-a thing never before seen by him or anyone else in this or any squadron, himself standing quite still now with the point of the bayonet about six niches from his stomach.
'All right,' he said. 'What do I do now?'
But the man didn't even answer. 'Corporal of the guard!' he shouted. Tost Number Four!' Then the corporal appeared.
'Second Lieutenant Levine,' he said. 'My aeroplane's in this hangar-'
'Not if you're General Haig and your sword's in there,' the cor-poral said.
'Right,' he said, and turned. And for a moment he even thought of Conventicle, the Flight Sergeant, he had been a soldier long enough by now to have learned that there were few, if any, mili-tary situations which the simple cry of 'Sergeant!' would not re-solve. It was mainly this of course, yet there was a little of some-thing else too: the rapport, not between himself and Conventicle perhaps, but between their two races-the middle-aged bog-com-plected man out of that race, all of whom he had ever known were named Evans or Morgan except the two or three named Deuter-onomy or Tabernacle or Conventicle out of the Old Testament-that morose and musical people who knew dark things by simply breathing, who seemed to be born without dread or concern into knowledge of and rapport with man's sunless and subterrene ori-gins which had better never have seen light at all, whose own misty and musiced names no other men could pronounce even, so that when they emerged from their fens and fastnesses into the rational world where men still tried to forget their sombre beginnings, they permitted themselves to be designated by the jealous and awesome nouns out of the old fierce Hebraic annals in which they as no other people seemed at home, as Napoleon in Austria had had his Monday (the child's) people with their unpronounceable names fetched before him and said Tour name is Wolf or 'Hoff' or 'Fox' or 'Berg or 'Schneider,' according to what they looked like or where they lived or what they did. But he considered this only a moment. There was only one sure source, knowing now that even this one would not be too certain. But nothing else remained: Bridesman's and Cowrie's hut (That was one of the dangled prerequisites for being brave enough to get to be a captain: half a hut to yourself. The major had a whole one.), Cowrie looking at him from the pillow as Bridesman sat up in the other cot and lit the candle and told him.
'Certainly it's not over. It's so far from over that you're going on jobs tomorrow. Does that satisfy you?'
'All right,' he said. 'But what happened? What is it? An armed sentry stopped me at the hangars thirty minutes ago and turned out the guard and the hangar doors were locked and a light inside and I could hear people doing something, only I couldn't pass the bayonet and when they drove me away I heard a lorry and saw a torch moving about down at that archie battery this side the vil-lage and of course that's fresh ammo being hurried up since archie quit at noon today too and naturally they'll need a lot of ammo to quit with too-'
'If I tell you, will you let be and go to your hut and go to bed?'
'Right,' he said. 'That's all I ever wanted: just to know. If they've beat us, I want to stand my share too-'
'Beat us be blowed. There's nobody in this war any longer capable of beating anyone, unless the Americans might in time---'
'And welcome,' Cowrie said. But Bridesman was still talking: 'A French regiment mutinied this morning-refused to go over. When they-the French-began to poke about to learn why, it seems that-But it's all right.'
'How all right?'
'It was only their infantry disaffected. Only troops holding the line. But the other regiments didn't do anything. The others all seemed to know in advance that the one was going to refuse, but all the others seemed to be just waiting about to see what was going to happen to it. But they-the French-took no chances. They pulled the regiment out and replaced it and moved up guns and put down a heavy barrage all along their front, just like we did this afternoon. To give ourselves time to see what was what. That's all.'
'How that's all?' he said. Cowrie had put a cigarette into his mouth and, raised onto one elbow, was reaching for the candle when the hand stopped, less than a fraction of a second before it moved on. 'What was the hun doing all this time?' He said quietly: 'So it's over.'