We stared after the man who went into the ruin of Kemmel, to the noise of gunfire, in evening dress, without an overcoat, through a blizzard of snow.

A little farther down the road we passed a signboard on the edge of a cratered field. New words had been painted on it in good Roman letters.

Cimetière reservé

Cimetière reservé

Tomlinson, the only Tomlinson, regarded it gravely and turned to me with a world of meaning in his eyes. Then he tapped his forehead and laughed.

“Mad!” he said. “We’re all mad!”