by Algernon Blackwood (1915)

Dimble was not too proud to fight, but he was too old, too stiff, too blind; he could not drill properly, because he really had to think a moment before he knew which was his left and which his right. There are some men who can positively do nothing; he was one of them. With the best intentions in the world, burning, zealous intentions too, he was yet useless. Unable to help, he lost that comfort which comes the moment one's smaller burden is merged in the collective burden of the nation. That peace being denied him, his interest in the war on the other hand being intense, he merely — read. Morning, noon, and night, he read. He read all the papers, but on Sunday he read only four, not counting "extras." Sunday was his day off.

He plunged with the ease of a bird from the heights of optimism to the depths of pessimism. It wore him out. He believed everything he read. Every move made on the great chess-board was a clever trap into which either the enemy or the Allies would march blind-eyed. He yearned to warn the latter. In time, however, the "trap" idea collapsed; it never came off; the lure was non-existent. A certain paper declared that the enemy would never be caught without its glasses … he gave up buying it for a week, then surreptitiously went back to it because it proved that the Germans were using their last reserves. A bad communiqué could keep him awake at night, so could a very good one.…

From the Eastern and Western fronts, at length, he switched off upon the Balkans, till he became so entangled that he — well, though his walls were covered with maps, he never could remember even whether Roumania was north of Bulgaria, or vice versa; nor which country claimed Bucharest or Sofia as its capital. Invariably he had to inspect his maps. Bucharest, since it began with B, ought to belong to Bulgaria; sometimes, judging by the telegrams, it did, sometimes, judging by the articles, it didn't. The Balkans became a gigantic jig-saw puzzle, all corners and curves and points and angles that would not fit. The coloured flags pricked his fingers, the maps got stained, the strip of carpet below them grew threadbare.

For a time he confined himself to picture-papers, till he read that most of the scenes were made somewhere in Surrey, or taken from manoeuvres of five years ago. He flung himself next upon strategy and diagrams of positions, till the chintzes on his chairs expressed surprise and peril, and the very blood in his strained eye-balls mapped the empty air with danger. Reality faded from the world. He himself "advanced" up the street or "retired" to his bedroom. On the way to his bath he muttered left, right, left, left, left — halt, then had to "retreat in perfect order" for his forgotten sponge and towel. He confined himself in the last resort to "official news."…

This called for grim restraint, but the truth was he was getting a little frightened. His speech showed signs of trouble, and sounds became audible in his head occasionally — z … sz … scz … czs … and pmj or mjp … and the like. He became aware of showers of them sprinkling almost visibly through the air — in the darkness, explosive, spitting sparks. They even pricked him. His tongue and throat grew sore. And there were other symptoms that alarmed him. The worst, perhaps, was the mute j. He had somehow got full of them without knowing it, either swallowed them or breathed them in, he knew not which; but in any case he was interiorly somewhat crowded with soft heaps of these mute j's. They were akin to microbes of a suppressed illness; for any moment — it was horrible to think of — they might emerge, appear, themselves, become not mute!

"And what are you doing, Dimble?" asked Spriggins at the Club one day, good-naturedly. Spriggins, though bald and crooked, wore "G. R." and a big red armlet every Sunday on route marches that nearly killed him. Dimble looked up helplessly into his face. He answered. Speech of a kind, at least, came twanging, buzzing from his lips:

"Ceskz … kivitch … ski … kzs … z . z. z. jjjjjjj!" he replied. His voice cracked oddly; tiny explosions were audible inside his chest; his throat held soda-water.

He did not notice how Spriggins got away; he "retreated," apparently in good order. It was certainly a rapid movement. Spriggins was not surrounded, at all events. And he left Dimble standing there as though he had been burned, destroyed, utterly devastated till nothing of any value remained inside his outer physical frame.

Matters had grown so serious by this time that he made a prodigious effort, and renounced all papers whatsoever — for an entire day. For twenty-four hours he read no news, no expert articles, no forecasts, no résumés, no analyses of the Balkan soul, nor one single report from a neutral traveller just returned from everywhere. He did not even look at a line from an official or diplomatic source whose authority it is impossible to doubt. He moved no single pin upon his many maps. He lay in darkness — he also lay in bed. He starved. A strange hunger woke in him: He knew an intolerable emptiness. He slept a little, however, and murmured in his sleep — for it was troubled — "Official news, official news … csz .. ksz .. j.j.j.…!"

Dimble recovered a bit and lived his life as best he could. He was careful now, not to say cautious. He reconnoitred before every single act; also he deployed. But things went rather quickly after that. He slept by day in a darkened room, and went out only in the night. He could not see the posters thus; the paper man at the corner, who now cut him dead instead of smiling cheerfully, could be avoided. This was the serious stage for Dimble. By the candlelight in his bedroom he noticed curious marks upon his arm; the skin seemed mottled. He said, "Bites, by Nicholas!" and thought of queer, invisible insects. Yet the marks apparently traced a pattern; they had design, meaning, almost rhythm. They were horribly familiar. And then he knew — they were j's. The mute j's were coming out! "Spies!" he cried in terror. "I'm betrayed! I've harboured spies! All this time they've been in my very midst! He knew he was done for then, but he did not fully realise his ghastly position until, the following night, he detected further marks. They were quite distinct. He easily made them out in the dark. He saw "Official …"

It was a dreadful business. He could not tell a soul, because his communications were all cut. He faced the worst with courage; no one should say he was a coward or a slacker. He ordered all the papers again, and sat reading them by daylight in his room. He went boldly to the Club and read them openly, brazenly, with true defiance. He agreed with everything he read, he understood it all, but he had no feelings now, he was neither optimistic nor the reverse. He simply read. … It was odd, but no one noticed him. In his room one day the landlady came in to brush and sweep — she ignored his presence, tidying the papers up all round him as though he were not there at all. The same thing happened at the Club. A waiter even tried to smooth him out and hang him on the file, and once he was nearly — oh, it was wicked — nearly picked up and offered to another member, Spriggins. Only, luckily, Spriggins had the decency to refuse him. He did it so nicely too: "No, thanks," he said with a little smile, "I've read it. There's nothing in it, anyhow!"

It was that very night when Dimble woke towards the early hours, and heard a crackling as he turned in bed. Terror gripped him. He lay quite still and listened. It was at the end of the bed apparently — a faint swishing, crackling noise with tiny reports accompanying it. He moved his foot; the sound was repeated. Something glimmered dimly. He moved the other foot, his arm as well, he sat up briskly. There was a leaping rush of the vague white form across the air; with a tap and slither it fell upon the floor beside him. He stooped over to pick it up, and his hand came into contact with something smooth and warm that was in the act of settling upon the floor. He felt the little wind it made. It was, of course, a newspaper. But the same instant, and before he removed his hand, he knew by the warmth of it that it was something more besides. It was not different from himself. What in the world had happened to him? It was himself. His hand was on the skin of his bare chest. He was crackling all over — but very nicely, very crisply. He settled back into bed with a kind of rush and slither. His terror passed. He felt well pleased with himself. "It's all right," he murmured, as he fell asleep. "For a moment I thought I was a halfpenny one! I must be more careful. Near shave, that! I must mention it to Spriggins … when I'm out!" There was an odd smell of printers' ink in the air.

Next morning he came out duly, and Spriggins bought him for a penny, right enough, and took him in his pocket on a long route march. While resting for lunch with his company, out by the Welsh Harp, which is 'Endon Wy', he lit his pipe with him. Dimble tried to utter a protest, but he stammered horribly. He could not get his words at all. He made a fizzy, crackling noise instead — of which Spriggins, puffing the smoke at him, took no slightest notice.

Then Dimble curled up, turned slowly black and passed away into the wind and fell into a stubble-field near by, and lay there quite happily until the dew that night came softly down and dissolved him into nothing — nothing visible or of value at any rate. .. BODY_END