Confused Objectives

In November there came the armistice with manifestations of popular emotion never witnessed before or since. I had been to hospital for treatment early that morning and, for some reason or other, I was making my way along the north side of Trafalgar Square by the National Gallery when the signals went off announcing to the world that the negotiations of which in the previous few days we had become aware had reached a final conclusion. In a matter of minutes, the square and the neighbouring streets were filled with dense masses of people inspired by uninhibited joy. The dull leaden years were over. No suspicion of difficulties to come darkened the feeling of unspeakable relief. Strangers embraced one another. Tears of happiness rolled down our cheeks. Traffic came, more or less, to a full stop; and even late that night it was not easy for the average civilian to get about quickly. For me there was no trouble. With my injured arm in its sling, used as if it were the prow of a ship, I could make my way anywhere, with the crowds sympathetically parting to make way; and our progress thus being ensured, Clive, Reggie Lawson and I spent an unforgettable evening sailing about, so to speak, the sea of demonstrators.