the signboard with a plumber’s blowflame。 well； there was the house where i’d been a child and a boy and a young man； where i’d crawled about the kitchen floor and smelt the sainfoin and read ‘donovan the dauntless’； where i’d done my homework for the grammar school； mixed bread paste； mended bicycle punctures； and tried on my first high collar。 it had been as permanent to me as the pyramids； and now it would be just an accident if i ever set foot in it again。 father； mother； joe； the errand boys； old nailer the terrier； spot； the one that came after nailer； jackie the bullfinch； the cats； the mice in the loft—all gone； nothing left but dust。 and i didn’t care a damn。 i was sorry mother was dead； i was even sorry father was dead； but all the time my mind was on other things。 i was a bit proud of being seen riding in a cab； a thing i hadn’t yet got used to； and i was thinking of the sit of my new whipcord breeches； and my nice smooth officer’s putties； so different from the gritty stuff the tommies had to wear； and of the other chaps at colchester and the sixty quid mother had left and the beanos we’d have with it。 also i was thanking god that i hadn’t happened to run into elsie。
the war did extraordinary things to people。 and what was more extraordinary than the way it killed people was the way it sometimes didn’t kill them。 it was like a great flood rushing you along to death； and suddenly it would shoot you up some backwater where you’d find yourself doing incredible and pointless things and drawing extra pay for them。 there were labour battalions making roads across the desert that didn’t lead anywhere； there were chaps marooned on oceanic islands to look out for german cruisers which had been sunk years earlier； there were ministries of this and that with armies of clerks and typists which went on existing years after their function had ended； by a kind of inertia。 people were shoved into meaningless jobs and then forgotten by the authorities for years on end。 this was what happened to myself； or very likely i wouldn’t be here。 the whole sequence of events is rather interesting。
a little while after i was gazetted there was a call for officers of the a。s。c。 as soon as the o。c。 of the training camp heard that i knew something about the grocery trade （i didn’t let on that i’d actually been behind the counter） he told me to send my name in。 that went through all right； and i was just about to leave for another training…school for a。s。c。 officers somewhere in the midlands when there was a demand for a young officer； with knowledge of the grocery trade； to act as some kind of secretary to sir joseph cheam； who was a big noise in the a。s。c。 god knows why they picked me out； but at any rate they did so。 i’ve since thought that they probably mixed my name up with somebody else’s。 three days later i was saluting in sir joseph’s office。 he was a lean； upright； rather handsome old boy with grizzled hair and a grave…looking nose which immediately impressed me。 he looked the perfect professional soldier； the k。c。m。g。； d。s。o。 with bar type； and might have been twin brother to the chap in the de reszke advert； though in private life he was chairman of one of the big chain groceries and famous all over the world for something called the cheam wage…cut system。 he stopped writing as i came in and looked me over。
‘you a gentleman？’
‘no； sir。’
‘good。 then perhaps we’ll get some work done。’
in about three minutes he’d wormed out of me that i had no secretarial experience； didn’t know shorthand； couldn’t use a typewriter； and had worked in a grocery at twenty…eight shillings a week。 however； he said that i’d do； there were too many gentlemen in this damned army and he’d been looking for somebody who could count beyond ten。 i liked him and looked forward to working for him； but just at this moment the mysterious powers that seemed to be running the war drove us apart again。 something called the west coast defence force was being formed； or rather was being talked about； and there was some vague idea of establishing dumps of rations and other stores at various points along the coast。 sir joseph was supposed to be responsible for the dumps in the south… west corner of england。 the day after i joined his office he sent me down to check over the stores at a place called twelve mile dump； on the north cornish coast。 or rather my job was to find out whether any stores existed。 nobody seemed certain about this。 i’d just got there and discovered that the stores consisted of eleven tins of bully beef when a wire arrived from the war office telling me to take charge of the stores at twelve mile dump and remain there till further notice。 i wired back ‘no stores at twelve mile dump。’ too late。 next day came the official letter informing me that i was o。c。 twelve mile dump。 and that’s really the end of the story。 i remained o。c。 twelve mile dump for the rest of the war。
god knows what it was all about。 it’s no use asking me what the west coast defence force was or what it was supposed to do。 even at that time nobody pretended to know。 in any case it didn’t exist。 it was just a scheme that had floated through somebody’s mind—following on some vague rumour of a german invasion via ireland； i suppose—and the food dumps which were supposed to exist all along the coast were also imaginary。 the whole thing had existed for about three days； like a sort of bubble； and then had been forgotten； and i’d been forgotten with it。 my eleven tins of bully beef had been left behind by some officers who had been there earlier on some other mysterious mission。 they’d also left behind a very deaf old man called private lidgebird。 what lidgebird was supposed to be doing there i never discovered。 i wonder whether you’ll believe that i remained guarding those eleven tins of bully beef from half…way through 1917 to the beginning of 1919？ probably you won’t； but it’s the truth。 and at the time even that didn’t seem particularly strange。 by 1918 one had simply got out of the habit of expecting things to happen in a reasonable manner。
once a month they sent me an enormous official form calling upon me to state the number and condition of pick…axes； entrenching tools； coils of barbed wire； blankets； waterproof groundsheets； first…aid outfits； sheets of corrugated iron； and tins of plum and apple jam under my care。 i just entered ‘nil’ against everything and sent the form back。 nothing ever happened。 up in london someone was quietly filing the forms； and sending out more forms； and filing those； and so on。 it was the way things were happening。 the mysterious higher…ups who were running the war had forgotten my existence。 i didn’t jog their memory。 i was up a backwater that didn’t lead anywhere； and after two years in france i wasn’t so burning with patriotism that i wanted to get out of it。
it was a lonely part of the coast where you never saw a soul except a few yokels who’d barely heard there was a war on。 a quarter of a mile away； down a little hill； the sea boomed and surged over enormous flats of sand。 nine months of the year it rained； and the other three a raging wind blew off the atlantic。 there was nothing there except private lidgebird； myself； two army huts—one of them a decentish two…roomed hut which i inhabited—and the eleven tins of bully beef。 lidgebird was a surly old devil and i could never get much out of him except the fact that he’d been a market gardener before he joined the army。 it was interesting to see how rapidly he was reverting to type。 even before i got to twelve mile dump he’d dug a patch round one of the huts and started planting spuds； in the autumn he dug another patch till he’d got about half an acre under cultivation； at the beginning of 1918 he started keeping hens which had got to quite a number by the end of the summer； and towards the end of the year he suddenly produced a pig from god knows where。 i don’t think it crossed his mind to wonder what the devil we were doing there； or what the west coast defence force was and whether it actually existed。 it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he’s there still； raising pigs and potatoes on the spot where twelve mile dump used to be。 i hope he is。 good luck to him。
meanwhile i was doing something i’d never before had the chance to do as a full…time job—reading。
the officers who’d been there before had left a few books behind； mostly sevenpenny editions and nearly all of them the kind of tripe that people were reading in those days。 ian hay and sapper and the craig kennedy stories and so forth。 but at some time or other somebody had been there who knew what books are worth reading and what are not。 i myself； at the time； didn’t know anything of the kind。 the only books i’d ever voluntarily read were detective stories and once in a way a smutty sex book。 god knows i don’t set up to be a highbrow even now； but if you’d asked me then for the name of a ‘good’ book i’d have answered the woman thou gavest me； or （in memory of the vicar） sesame and lilies。 in any case a ‘good’ book was a book one didn’t have any intention of reading。 but there i was； in a job where there was less than nothing to do； with the sea booming