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Updated: May 2, 2025
"It's deeper than the brain." "Deeper," said Herbertson, nodding. "Funny thing where life is. We had a lieutenant. You know we all buried our own dead. Well, he looked as if he was asleep. Most of the chaps looked like that." Herbertson closed his eyes and laid his face aside, like a man asleep and dead peacefully.
Your heroic officers are a sad sight AFTERWARDS, when they come home. Bah, your Herbertson! The only justification for war is what we learn from it. And what have they learnt? Why did so many of them have presentiments, as he called it? Because they could feel inside them, there was nothing to come after. There was no life-courage: only death-courage.
Lilly wondered why he made the presentiment responsible for the death which he obviously did and not vice versa. Herbertson implied every time, that you'd never get killed if you could keep yourself from having a presentiment. Perhaps there was something in it. Perhaps the soul issues its own ticket of death, when it can stand no more. Surely life controls life: and not accident.
But underneath it all was the same as in the common men of all the combatant nations: the hot, seared burn of unbearable experience, which did not heal nor cool, and whose irritation was not to be relieved. The experience gradually cooled on top: but only with a surface crust. The soul did not heal, did not recover. "I used to be awfully frightened," laughed Herbertson.
Herbertson laughed with a twinkling motion to Lilly. But between his brows there was a tension like madness. "And a funny thing you know how you don't notice things. In let me see 1916, the German guns were a lot better than ours. Ours were old, and when they're old you can't tell where they'll hit: whether they'll go beyond the mark, or whether they'll fall short.
They sent up enough light at night from their trenches you know, those things that burst in the air like electric light we had none of that to do they did it all for us lit up everything. They were more nervous than we were...." It was nearly two o'clock when Herbertson left. Lilly, depressed, remained before the fire. Aaron got out of bed and came uneasily to the fire.
Nothing beyond this hell only death or love languishing " "What could they have seen, anyhow?" said Aaron. "It's not what you see, actually. It's the kind of spirit you keep inside you: the life spirit. When Wallace had presentiments, Herbertson, being officer, should have said: 'None of that, Wallace.
Aaron turned aside half sheepishly. "That's how it looks on the face of it, isn't it?" he said. "Look here, my friend, it's too late for you to be talking to me about the face of things. If that's how you feel, put your things on and follow Herbertson. Yes go out of my room. I don't put up with the face of things here." Aaron looked at him in cold amazement.
As a man at night helplessly takes a taxi to find some woman, some prostitute, Herbertson had almost unthinkingly got into a taxi and come battering at the door in Covent Garden, only to talk war to Lilly, whom he knew very little. But it was a driving instinct to come and get it off his chest. And on and on he talked, over his wine and soda.
It was like a fox slipping alert among unsuspecting cattle. When he got back, he saw in the distance the lights of a taxi standing outside the building where he lived, and heard a thumping and hallooing. He hurried forward. It was a man called Herbertson. "Oh, why, there you are!" exclaimed Herbertson, as Lilly drew near. "Can I come up and have a chat?" "I've got that man who's had flu.
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