“It is not permitted to speak of this matter,” he said in explanation of his attitude.  “It is a military secret, this invention.  We call it a mine gun.”

Every man to his taste.  I should have called it a well-digger.

Erect upon the highest stretch of riddled walls, with his legs spraddled far apart and his arms jerking in expressive gestures, he told us how the German infantry had advanced across the open ground.  It had been hard, he said, to hold the men back until the order for the charge was given, and then they burst from their cover and came on at a dead run, cheering.

“It was very fine,” he added.  “Very glorious.”

“Did you have any losses in the charge?” asked one of our party.

“Oh, yes,” he answered, as though that part of the proceeding was purely an incidental detail and of no great consequence.  “We lost many men here—­very many—­several thousands, I think.  Most of them are buried where you see those long ridges in the second field beyond.”

In a sheltered corner of a redoubt, close up under a parapet and sheathed on its inner side with masonry, was a single grave.  The pounding feet of many fighting men had beaten the mound flat, but a small wooden cross still stood in the soil, and on it in French were penciled the words: 

“Here lies Lieutenant Verner, killed in the charge of battle.”

His men must have thought well of the lieutenant to take the time, in the midst of the defense, to bury him in the place where he fell, for there were no other graves to be seen within the fort.

Chapter 13

Those Yellow Pine Boxes

It was late in the short afternoon, and getting close on to twilight, when we got back into the town.  Except for the soldiers there was little life stirring in the twisting streets.  There was a funeral or so in progress.  It seemed to us that always, no matter where we stopped, in whatsoever town or at whatsoever hour, some dead soldier was being put away.  Still, I suppose we shouldn’t have felt any surprise at that.  By now half of Europe was one great funeral.  Part of it was on crutches and part of it was in the graveyard and the rest of it was in the field.

Daily in these towns back behind the firing lines a certain percentage of the invalided and the injured, who had been brought thus far before their condition became actually serious, would die; and twice daily, or oftener, the dead would be buried with military honors.

So naturally we were eyewitnesses to a great many of these funerals.  Somehow they impressed me more than the sight of dead men being hurriedly shoveled under ground on the battle front where they had fallen.  Perhaps it was the consciousness that those who had these formal, separate burials were men who came alive out of the fighting, and who, even after being stricken, had a chance for life and then lost it.  Perhaps it was the small show of ceremony and ritual which marked each one—­the firing squad, the clergyman in his robes, the tramping escort—­that left so enduring an impress upon my mind.  I did not try to analyze the reasons; but I know my companions felt as I did.