Late at night the colonel⁠—that first chief of ours⁠—used to come home from G.H.Q. , as all men called General Headquarters with a sense of mystery, power, and inexplicable industry accomplishing⁠—what?⁠—in those initials. He came back with a cheery shout of, “Fine weather tomorrow!” or, “A starry night and all’s well!” looking fine and soldierly as the glare of his headlights shone on his tall figure with red tabs and a colored armlet. But that cheeriness covered secret worries. Night after night, in those early weeks of our service, he sat in his little office, talking earnestly with the press officers⁠—our censors. They seemed to be arguing, debating, protesting, about secret influences and hostilities surrounding us and them. I could only guess what it was all about. It all seemed to make no difference to me when I sat down before pieces of blank paper to get down some kind of picture, some kind of impression, of a long day in places where I had been scared awhile because death was on the prowl in a noisy way and I had seen it pounce on human bodies. I knew that tomorrow I was going to another little peepshow of war, where I should hear the same noises. That talk downstairs, that worry about some mystery at