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“The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month ...”

Though the departmental order was marked “secret”, I did not hesitate to give my wife a hint of its contents. All the world—if the armistice were accepted—could read the news next morning. And the armistice would be accepted. Silence hung over town and country throughout the misty, long hours of Sunday: it was, I felt, as though all England were at prayer. Faint restlessness muttered throughout the lagging, cold hours of Sunday night: it was as though all England were keeping vigil.

“You can’t doubt,” I told Barbara, as we parted at the door of the Admiralty. “With any luck, the news is waiting for me.”

“I can’t believe,” she answered. “Four years and three months. Nearly a fifth of my whole life. I’m used to the war ... almost. I don’t see why it should ever stop.”