ir, glad of the little light
which comes to the trench of the battlefield, because men like these
still promise something better than hatred and blood, and look
beyond the gates of death, to peace.

10

Not all French soldiers are like these priests who were valiant with the
spirit of Christian faith. Side by side with the priest was the apache, or
the slum-dweller, or the peasant from the fields, who in conversation
was habitually and unconsciously foul. Not even the mild protest of
one of these priests could check the flow of richly imagined
blasphemies which are learnt in the barracks during the three years'
service, and in the bistros of the back streets of France from
Cherbourg to Marseilles. But, as a rule, the priest did not protest,
except by the example of keeping his own tongue clean. "What is the
use?" said one of them. "That kind of thing is second nature to the
men and, after all, it is part of my sacrifice."

Along the roads of France, swinging along to dig a new line of
trenches, or on a march from a divisional headquarters to the front,
the soldiers would begin one of their Rabelaisian songs which have
no ending, but in verse after verse roam further into the purlieus of
indecent mirth, so that, as one French officer told me, "these ballads
used to make the heather blush." After the song would come the
great game of French soldiers on the march. The humorist of the
company would remark upon the fatigued appearance of a sous-
officier near enough to hear.

"He is not in good form to-day, our little corporal. Perhaps it has
something to do with his week-end in Paris!"

Another humorist would take up the cue.

"He has a great thirst, our corporal. His first bottle of wine just whets
his whistle. At the sixth bottle he begins to think of drinking seriously!"

"He is a great amourist, too, they tell me, and very passionate in his
love-making!"

So the ball is started and goes rolling from one man to another in the
ranks, growing in audacity and wallowing along filthy ways of thought,
until the sous-officier, who had been grinning under his kepi, suddenly
turns red with anger and growls out a protest.

"Taisez-vous, cochons. Foutez-moi la paix!"

All this obscenity of song and speech spoils the heroic picture a little,
and yet does not mean very much in spite of its outrageous heights
and depths. It belongs to the character of men who have faced all the
facts of life with frank eyes, and find