tinged with unnecessary anxiety, and that
he had no right to allow the Germans to disturb his peace of mind. If
this were so, the presence of actual and tangible danger completely
obliterated all traces of nerves. He stood up in the firing-line. He
drew himself up to the full of his height, and seemed to inhale with
pleasure the dangerous air. All the time bullets were humming overhead
like swift and malignant insects, or striking the ground with a spatter
of brown earth.

The Adjutant, following him, suddenly bent double as if he had been
struck below the belt; but the Colonel merely straightened himself, and
not a nerve in his phlegmatic face twitched.

"What's the matter?" asked the Colonel.

"Only a bullet struck my revolver hilt, sir," replied the Adjutant. It
had splintered the woodwork and been deflected between his arm and ribs.

Near by a man rose on his knees to get a better shot at the enemy.

"What's that man doing? Get down there this moment!" roared the Colonel.

Then, as he recognised an old soldier of the regiment, "Atkins, how
dare you expose yourself unnecessarily? Your wife used to do my washing
in Tidshot. Me? Oh, I'm only an old bachelor. It doesn't matter about
me. There's nobody to care what happens to me." And, well pleased with
his joke, the Colonel passed down the line, proud of his magnificent
bravery.

There is something about the rough-and-tumble of battle that lifts one
above one's self. One's legs and arms are not the same listless limbs
that were crying for rest only a short hour ago. One is envigoured; the
excitement stimulates. One feels great, magnanimous, superb. The
difficulty lies not in forcing oneself to be brave, but in curbing
ridiculous impulses, and in forcing the brain to work slowly and
smoothly. The smallest natures rise to great heights. An ordinary
self-centred creature performs acts of dazzling generosity towards
fellows he does not even know--with everything to lose and nothing to
gain. He will rescue a wounded man under heavy fire, to whom an hour
previously he would have refused to lend sixpence.

Why is it?

If the enemy were a roaring brazen beast, such as the knights of the
fairy tales used to fight, one could understand it. But he is not. You
cannot even see him. Three-quarters of a mile ahead there is a dark
brown line, and that is all. Whence comes the love of battle? Is it
roused by the little messengers of death that whizz invisibly by? No one
can s