of slaughter,
which made you unwilling butchers and victims of a bloody sacrifice.
Bonne chance, soldats de France!

Chapter X
The Men In Khaki

1

When our little professional army landed on the coast of Prance there
was not one in a thousand soldiers who had more than the vaguest
idea as to why he was coming to fight the Germans or as to the
character of the fighting in which he was to be engaged. If one asked
him "Why are we at war with Germany" this regular soldier would
scratch his head, struggle to find a reasonable answer, and mutter
something about "them bloody Germans," and "giving a hand to the
Froggies." Of international politics, world-problems, Teutonic
ambitions, Slav perils, White Papers or Yellow Papers, he knew
nothing and cared nothing. As a professional soldier it was his duty to
fight anybody he was told to fight, of whatever colour he might be, or
of whatever country. For some months it had been in his mind that he
might have to do a bit of shooting in Ireland, and on the whole he was
glad that this enemy was to speak a foreign language. It made the
game seem more as it should be. What was it Blatchford had said
about the Germans? He couldn't quite remember the drift of it, except
that they had been preparing for years to have a smack at England.
Wanted to capture all our Colonies, and were building ships like
blazes. Of course our Government had been asleep as usual, and
didn't care a damn. No British Government ever did, as far as he
could remember. Anyhow, the Germans were his enemy, and the
French were our friends--which was queer--and the British army was
going to save Europe again according to its glorious traditions as
mentioned more than once by the Colonel. It had been a fine time
before saying good-bye to the wife and kids. Every man had been a
hero to his fellow citizens, who had clapped him on the back and
stood free drinks in great style. "Bring us back some German
helmets, Jock!" the girls had shouted out, "And mind your P's and
Q's with them French hussies."

It would be a bit of a change to see the Continental way of doing
things. They spoke a queer lingo, the French, but were all right. Quite
all right, judging from the newspapers, and a fellow who had gone out
as a chauffeur and had come back with fancy manners. "After you,
Monsieur. Pardonney-more." There would be some great adventures
to tell the lads when the business was over. Of course there would be
hot wor