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Lying beneath the stars, wrapped warmly in our blankets, my friend and I discussed the wonderful news. ‘I really feel almost sorry for the Germans. They haven't a chance with France and ourselves against them. They have really gone too far this time.‘
It was August 1914. The diary was written in 1919 at The Queen's College, Oxford. Since I wrote it I have not referred to it again till now, sixty-three years later. I write this under Californian skies.
I have changed some names as a way of avoiding hurting those who might recognize someone loved and no longer able to defend themselves. Nevertheless, I know that very little effort would be required to link the battles, the units engaged and the people who took part. I rely on the inertia of those who might make cruel use of what I say, to protect myself and others from unnecessary pain. There is no criticism that I make of others which could not with equal justice be applied to me.
There is one spirit from the ‘vastie deepe’ [Shakespeare, Henry IV] that I can conjure up. Here he is: powerfully built, inclined to fat but otherwise, superficially at least, physically fit; somewhat surly, though rarely given to outbursts of laughter; it is noticeable that he does not smile. His best friend at The Queen's College once told him, with shrewd and kindly acuteness, ‘You do rather retire from the college and sulk.‘ His name is BION.