For if, tonight, the baliff at our heels once more constrains the Group to move, a single broken-down lorry will suffice to put off our death until another time. Alias will forget to be affected by our death.

The life of the spirit, I say, is intermittent. My own spirit as much as Alias’. I am off on an “awkward” sortie. Is my mind filled with the thought of the war of the Nazi against the Occident? Not at all. I think in terms of immediate details. I think of possible wounds. I think of the absurdity of flying over German-held Arras at two thousand feet. Of the futility of the intelligence we are asked to bring back. Of the interminable time it takes to dress in these clothes that remind me of men made ready for the executioner. And I think of my gloves. Where the devil are my gloves? I have lost my gloves.

I can no longer see the cathedral in which I live. I am dressing for the service of a dead god.

III

“Get going! Where are my gloves?... No, not those. Have a look in my bag.”

“Sorry, sir. Can’t find them.”

“God, you’re a fool!”

Everybody is a fool. My orderly, who doesn’t know where my gloves are. Hitler, who unloosed this mad war. And that fellow on the General Staff, obsessed by low-altitude sorties.

“I asked you to get me a pencil. I have been asking you for ten minutes to find me a pencil. Haven’t you got a pencil?”

“Here it is, sir.”

One man, at least, who is not a fool.

“Tie a string round it. Now knot the string through this buttonhole.... I say, gunner, you seem to be taking things very easily.”

“I’m all ready, sir.”

“Oh!”

And my observer. I swung round to him.

“Everything shipshape, Dutertre? Nothing missing? Worked out your course?”

He has worked out his course. “Awkward” sortie indeed! Where is the sense, I ask you, in sending a crew out to be murdered for the sake of intelligence that is sure to be useless and will never reach the Staff anyway, even if one of us lives to report it?

“Mediums,” I said aloud. “They must have a crew of mediums on the General Staff.”

“What do you mean, Captain?”

“How do you think we’ll report to them? They are going to communicate with us. Table tipping. Automatic writing.”

Not very funny; but I went on grousing.

“General Staffs! Let them fly their own damned sorties!”

It takes a long time to dress for a sortie that you know is a hopeless one. A long time to harness yourself only for the fun of being blasted to bits. There are three thicknesses of clothing to be put on, one over the other: that takes time.