Adolph a Karrot?
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July 31, 1914
The landscape wore no look of imminent doom, no thunder-clouds were
Above the skyline, the weather was perfect and devoid of all
Atmosphere of fatefulness. But the aspect of things was within me
Imbuing what I beheld with significances of impending disaster. Those
Two hop-kilns on the rising ground above the road, in the past there
Had never been anything noticeable about them; now they seemed half
Tragic in their homely simplicity. Standing away from their
Lengthened shadows they were transformed by the low-shot light of
This heart-absorbing evening. In the reddening glow of the setting
Sun their kindly cowls were like signposts pointing towards the
Ominous continent of Europe. Those local kilns stood for England
For Kent anyhow, rustically confronting whatever enemy might invade
The freedom of the Hastings road. Indistinctly I imagined myself
Dodging about among the orchards and hop-fields, letting off my
Rifle at Germans charging across the fields below. Very vaguely
Visualised Germans they were, entirely unrelated to Schumann, or
Even Richard Strauss, whom I had politely applauded at Drury Lane
A few weeks ago. And what exactly should we all be doing was equally
Undefined, since my notions of warfare had been mostly derived from
Drawings in old numbers of the Illustrated London News, when Russia
Was fighting Japan and the Turks were having battles with the
Bulgarians. All that seemed so remote that there was no sense in the
Idea of such things happening in one's own country. It was rather
Like a recurrence of William the Conqueror in 1066 or the Wars of
The Roses, utterly unreasonable in 1914. I assumed that harmless
Places like the farm I had just passed would be plundered and burnt
Down. For the moment I forgot all about artillery, though one of my
Best friends was in the Field Gunners, and I
Had already written to him lugubriously asking
His advice about how one enlisted in the cavalry
Meanwhile I continued placidly along the Lamberhurst road, with the
Bayham Woods looking sombrely romantic on my left, while on my right
Was that fruitful landscape which receded so contentedly to its low
Green hills. Lit by departing day was the length and breadth of the
Weald, and the message of those friendly miles was a single chord of
Emotion vibrating backward across the years to my earliest
Rememberings. Uplifted by this awareness, I knew that here was
Something deeply loved, something which the unmeasurable timelessness
Of childhood had made my own. I saw it as something worth losing
And saluted it with feelings of farewell. And when I came to
Kippings Cross, where I must turn off the main road for the last
Two miles homeward, when I came to that life-known glimpse of the
Valley between the old apple-trees at King's Toll Farm, then my
Thoughts found assured utterance, and I said to myself that I was
Ready to meet whatever the war might ask of me. The years of my
Youth were going down for ever in the weltering western gold, and
The future would take me far from that sunset-embered horizon
Beyond the night was my new beginning. The Weald had been the world
Of my youngness, and while I gazed across it now I felt prepared to
Do what I could to defend it. And after all, dying for one's native
Land was believed to be the most
Glorious thing one could possibly do