ught me bravery, truth, self-sacrifice, kindness and
chivalry. I have learned more in two months at the camp than in all the
rest of my life put together. The companionship in my company and in my
camp have saved my soul." It is this that explains the redemption of the
slacker.

2. Slackers versus Heroes

Going through the long communication trench, between the ruined city of
Rheims and an observation lookout, with its view of the German front
trench, we passed several soldiers digging an opening in the soft white
marl, into a parallel trench. The captain in charge called my attention
to a French poilu. His hair was quite black, save for the half inch next
to the scalp and that was white as snow. If one had lifted up his hair
and estimated his age by the last two inches of the jet locks the poilu
would have been about thirty-five, but the hair, pure white at the
roots, and a glance at his face told us that he was fifty-five to sixty.

"He passed inspection," said the captain, "by dyeing his hair, and
several weeks ago he broke the bottle of dye. Now he is half scared to
death for fear he will be thrown out, because he is at the beginning of
old age. Still I have no better soldier, no stronger, braver man. But I
am hoping much from a friend in Epernay, to whom I sent for a bottle of
black hair dye."

So long as the Frenchmen have that spirit France will never be defeated.

Many weeks ago I was in a manufacturing town near Pittsburgh. The wind
was sharp and chill. All overcoats were turned up at the collar. On a
box stood a young Australian lieutenant. His cheeks held two fiery
spots. He was telling the story of the second battle of Ypres. While he
talked you walked with him the streets of the doomed city, you heard the
crash of the great shells as they smashed through the public buildings;
you witnessed the burning of the Cloth Hall and shivered as the noble
structure fell. One laughed with him in his moments of humour and wept
over the sorrows of the refugees. He pleaded with the Welshmen and the
Cornishmen, and told them that the motherland was bleeding to death and
that now every boy counted. He flogged his hearers, scoffed at them,
praised them, wept, laughed, reviled, transformed and finally conquered
them.

At the close, shaking hands with him, lo! he was burning with fever,
with skin hot and dry. "Lieutenant, you should be at the hotel, in bed.
You will kill yourself speaking in this cold air."

"Well,"