ir, so that it
burst above the enemy like a rocket or a star-shell. He would blow a
long whistle, as it shot skyward, and say "PLONK!" as it exploded
into a shower of splinters.

For Doe was young and effervescing with life. He enjoyed himself,
and his bombers enjoyed him as their officer. Everybody, in fact,
enjoyed Edgar Doe.

In these latter days the gifted youth had suddenly discovered that
all things French were perfect. Gone were the days of classical
elegancies. Doe read only French novels which he borrowed from
Pierre Poilu at Seddel Bahr.

And why? Because they knew how to live, _ces francais_. They lived
deeply, and felt deeply, with their lovely emotionalism. They ate
and drank learnedly. They suffered, sympathised, and loved, always
deeply. They were _bons viveurs_, in the intensest meaning of the
words. "They live, they live." And because of this, his spiritual
home was in France. "You English," said he, "_vous autres anglais_,
with your damned un-emotionalism, empty your lives of spiritual
experience: for emotion is life, and all that's interesting in life
is spiritual incident. But the French, they live!"

He even wrote a poem about the faith which he had found, and started
to declaim it to me one night in our little dug-out, "Seaview":

"For all emotions that are tense and strong,
And utmost knowledge, I have lived for these--
Lived deep, and let the lesser things live long,
The everlasting hills, the lakes, the trees,
Who'd give their thousand years to sing this song
Of Life, and Man's high sensibilities--

"Yes, Roop, living through war is living deep. It's crowded,
glorious living. If I'd never had a shell rush at me I'd never have
known the swift thrill of approaching death--which is a wonderful
sensation not to be missed. If I'd never known the shock of seeing
sudden death at my side, I'd have missed a terribly wonderful thing.
They say music's the most evocative art in the world, but, _sacre
nom de dieu_, they hadn't counted the orchestra of a bombardment.
That's music at ten thousand pounds a minute. And if I'd not heard
that, I'd never have known what it is to have my soul drawn out of
me by the maddening excitement of an intensive bombardment.
And--and, _que voulez-vous_, I have _killed_!"

"Hm!" muttered I. He was too clever for me, but I loved him in his
scintillating moments.

"_Tiens_, if I'm knocked out, it's at le