heroism. It appears
that this war must be impersonal--it is the political formula of the time
--and it is forbidden to mention names. Eh bien? Have I named any
one?"

14

Out of the monotonous narratives of trench-warfare, stories more
horrible than the nightmare phantasies of Edgar Allen Poe, stories of
men buried alive by sapping and mining, and of men torn to bits by a
subterranean explosion which leaves one man alive amidst the litter
of his comrades' limbs so that he goes mad and laughs at the frightful
humour of death, come now and then to reveal the meaning of this
modern warfare which is hidden by censors behind decent veils. It is
a French lieutenant who tells this story, which is heroic as well as
horrid:

"We were about to tidy up a captured trench. At the barrier of sand-
bags which closed up one end of it, two sentinels kept a sharp look-
out so that we could work in peace of mind. Suddenly from a tunnel,
hidden by a fold in the ground, an avalanche of bombs was hurled
over our heads, and before we could collect our wits ten of our men
had fallen dead and wounded, all hugger-mugger. I opened my
mouth to shout a word of command when a pebble, knocked by a
piece of shell, struck me on the head and I fell, quite dazed. But my
unconsciousness only lasted a second or two. A bursting shell tore off
my left hand and I was awakened by the pain of it. When I opened
my eyes and groaned, I saw the Germans jump across the sand-
bags and invade the trench. There were twenty of them. They had no
rifles, but each man carried a sort of wicker basket filled with bombs. I
looked round to the left. All our men had fled except those who were
lying in their blood. And the Germans were coming on. Another slip or
two and they would have been on the top of me. At that moment one
of my men, wounded in the forehead, wounded in the chin, and with
his face all in a pulp of blood, sat up, snatched at a bag of hand
grenades, and shouted out:

"Arise, ye dead!"

He got on his knees, and began to fling his bombs into the crowd of
Germans. At his call, the other wounded men struggled up. Two with
broken legs grasped their rifle and opened fire. The hero with his left
arm hanging limp, grabbed a bayonet. When I stood up, with all my
senses about me now, some of the Germans were wounded and
others were scrambling out of the trench in a panic. But with his back
to the sand-bags stayed a German Unter-offizier, enormous,
sweating,