“Oh, throw your bomb!  You are keeping me from my dinner.”

A soldier under fire furnishes few of the surprises of conduct to which the civilian treats you.  The soldier has no choice.  He is tied by the leg, and whether the chances are even or ridiculously in his favor he must accept them.  The civilian can always say, “This is no place for me,” and get up and walk away.  But the soldier cannot say that.  He and his officers, the Red Cross nurses, doctors, ambulance-bearers, and even the correspondents have taken some kind of oath or signed some kind of contract that makes it easier for them than for the civilian to stay on the job.  For them to go away would require more courage than to remain.

Indeed, although courage is so highly regarded, it seems to be of all virtues the most common.  In six wars, among men of nearly every race, color, religion, and training, I have seen but four men who failed to show courage.  I have seen men who were scared, sometimes whole regiments, but they still fought on; and that is the highest courage, for they were fighting both a real enemy and an imaginary one.

There is a story of a certain politician general of our army who, under a brisk fire, turned on one of his staff and cried: 

“Why, major, you are scared, sir; you are scared!”

“I am,” said the major, with his teeth chattering, “and if you were as scared as I am you’d be twenty miles in the rear.”

In this war the onslaughts have been so terrific and so unceasing, the artillery fire especially has been so entirely beyond human experience, that the men fight in a kind of daze.  Instead of arousing fear the tumult acts as an anaesthetic.  With forests uprooted, houses smashing about them, and unseen express-trains hurtling through space, they are too stunned to be afraid.  And in time they become fed up on battles and to the noise and danger grow callous.  On the Aisne I saw an artillery battle that stretched for fifteen miles.  Both banks of the river were wrapped in smoke; from the shells villages miles away were in flames, and two hundred yards in front of us the howitzer shells were bursting in black fumes.  To this the French soldiers were completely indifferent.  The hills they occupied had been held that morning by the Germans, and the trenches and fields were strewn with their accoutrement.  So all the French soldiers who were not serving the guns wandered about seeking souvenirs.  They had never a glance for the villages burning crimson in the bright sunight or for the falling “Jack Johnsons.”

They were intent only on finding a spiked helmet, and when they came upon one they would give a shout of triumph and hold it up for their comrades to see.  And their comrades would laugh delightedly and race toward them, stumbling over the furrows.  They were as happy and eager as children picking wild flowers.