r bits of philosophy
jerked out between this narrative. "This war is only endurable
because it is for a final peace in Europe." "Men will refuse to suffer
these things again. It is the end of militarism." "If I thought that a
child of mine would have to go through all that I have suffered
during these last weeks, I would strangle him in his cradle to save him
from it."

Sometimes he spoke of France with a kind of religion in his eyes.

"Of course, I am ready to die for France. She can demand my life as
a right. I belong to her and she can do with me what she likes. It's my
duty to fight in her defence, and although I tell you all the worst of war,
monsieur, I do not mean that I am not glad to have done my part. In a
few weeks this wound of mine will be healed and I shall go back, for
the sake of France, to that Hell again. It is Hell, quand meme!"

He analysed his fears with simple candour and confessed that many
times he had suffered most from imaginary terrors. After the German
retreat from Luneville, he was put on a chain of outposts linked up
with the main French lines. It was at night, and as he stood leaning on
his rifle he saw black figures moving towards him. He raised his rifle,
and his finger trembled on the trigger. At the first shot he would
arouse the battalion nearest to him. They were sleeping, but as men
sleep who may be suddenly attacked. They would fire without further
question, and probably he would be the first to die from their bullets.
Was it the enemy? They were coming at right angles to the French
lines. The foremost were even within twenty yards of him now. His
nerves were all trembling. He broke out into a hot sweat. His eyes
straining through the darkness were shot through with pain. He had
almost an irresistible desire to fire and shout out, so as to end the
strain of suspense which racked his soul. At last he gave the
challenge, restraining himself from firing that first shot. It was well he
did so. For the advancing French troops belonged to a French
regiment changing their position under cover of darkness. If my little
friend had lost his nerve and fired too soon they would have been
shot down by their own comrades.

"It's one's imagination that gives one most trouble," he said, and I
thought of the words of an English officer, who told me one day that
"No one with an imagination ought to come out to this war." It is for
that reason--the possession of a highly developed imagination--th