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He
appears to be a practitioner of the Japanese school of diplomacy--that
is, he believes it is better to pile one gentle, transparent fiction on
another until the pyramid of romance falls of its own weight, rather
than to break the cruel news at a single blow.
Eleven-twenty. One of the soldiers has brought us half a dozen bottles
of good wine--three bottles of red and three of white--but the larder
remains empty. I do not know exactly what a larder is; but if it is as
empty as I am at the present moment it must remind itself of a haunted
house.
Eleven-forty. A big van full of wounded Germans has arrived. From the
windows we can see it distinctly. The more seriously hurt lie on the
bed of the wagon, under the hood. The man who drives has one leg in
splints; and of the two who sit at the tail gate, holding rifles
upright, one has a bandaged head, and the other has an arm in a sling.
Unless a German is so seriously crippled as to be entirely unfitted for
service he manages to do something useful.


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