I’m glad to be leaving England again. Training is over: they gave me a nice red beret and a badge with wings as a souvenir. I’m being flip: actually I’m startlingly proud of myself and the other men. I never thought I’d be the sort of person to be talking about doing my bit, but I see now that one has to do just that if the world is to be prevented from ruining itself completely. There’s so much to do out there. I rather despise myself for writing this. I never wanted to be a soldier. I believed that soldiering was a moral outrage. But not very long ago I was here in London on leave and I ran into some old friends from art school in a pub. It’s the place we all used to drink, a narrow, dingy little place with none of the passion and energy of the Cordelio but packed full of artists and poets and writers – and a good few tarts and scroungers. My friends are in the army too. They’d tried to be conscientious objectors – do you remember me telling you that I wanted to be one? – and though they hadn’t quite managed it, they haven’t been sent into the fighting. Quite the reverse: they’re painting stage sets for a production of Macbeth. They took me down to have a look. Beautiful, beautiful work. I was so impressed, and so envious, that I almost cried. After I left them I wandered around a bit, through the smashed-up streets. I didn’t want to be a gunner any more. I wanted to paint strange oak woods and magical starlight for the Piccadilly Theatre. I wanted to paint, which is to say, I wanted to be myself again. Before I met you I’d never found something I loved more than my work.