Correspondingly queer (though I didn’t consciously observe it at the time) was the experience of returning to France after sleeping seven nights in a proper bed and wearing civilian clothes. The personal implications were obvious, since everybody at home seemed to know that the long-planned offensive was due to kick off at the end of June. Officers going on leave had been cautioned to say nothing about it, but even Aunt Evelyn was aware of the impending onslaught. I was disinclined to talk about the trenches; nevertheless I permitted myself to drop a few heavy hints. No one had any notion what the Big Push would be like, except that it would be much bigger than anything which had happened before. And somehow those previous battles hadn’t divulged themselves very distinctly to anyone except the actual participators, who had so far proved inarticulate reporters.
As regards my own adventures, I had decided to say nothing to my aunt about the raid. Nevertheless it all slipped out on the second evening, probably after she had been telling me how splendidly Mrs. Ampney’s nephew had done out in Mesopotamia. Also I didn’t omit to mention that I had been recommended for a Military Cross. “But I thought you were only looking after the horses,” she expostulated, clutching my hand; her anxious face made me wish I’d held my tongue about it. Of course, Aunt Evelyn wanted me to do well in the war, but she couldn’t enjoy being reminded that “do be careful to wear your warm overcoat, dearie,” was no precaution against German bombs and bullets. Afterwards I excused myself by thinking that she was bound to find out sooner or later, especially if I got killed.
Next day I walked across the fields to Butley and had tea with my old friend Captain Huxtable. I found him chubby-cheeked as ever, and keeping up what might be called a Justice of the Peace attitude towards