Yes; oh, yes!

Here were beings created in the likeness of their Maker, whose criterion of superiority over other animals was in these symbols and not in that of tooth, claw, or talon, disembowelling their fellow creatures.  Here were beings huddled together like a lot of puppies or cubs on an island in the midst of carnage which was not a visitation of the Almighty, but of their own making.  And suicide and homicide were against the law in the lands of both the Browns and the Grays!

The whole business was monstrous, lunatic, inconceivable.  Yet he himself was one of the actors, without the character or the courage to break free of the machine which was taking lives with the irresponsibility of a baby hammering at the jewels of a watch.  The fact that he knew better made him far more culpable, he thought, than little Peterkin or any of his comrades.  Yes, he was despicable; he was a coward!

All were lulled into a sense of security except Captain Fracasse, who had a set frown of apprehension which came of a professional knowledge not theirs.  Little Peterkin, warmed by the autumn sunlight, began to believe in his star.  If there were to be a special dispensation providing shell craters and the reverse walls of redoubts for him, he might retain his reputation for heroism.

The sand still working its way downward between Pilzer’s bare skin and his undershirt irritated him to unusual restlessness of ambition for glory and bronze crosses.  He was the strong man of his company, now that Eugene Aronson was dead.  He must prove his importance.  An inspiration made him leap to his feet.  This brought his head within a foot of the top of the parapet, with an enemy’s rifle barrel in easy reach.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was the type who must precede action with a boast; a bite with a growl.  Let all see that he was about to do a gallant, clever thing.

“Watch me snatch that rifle!” he announced.

“No, you don’t!  Get down!” snapped Fracasse.  “We aren’t inviting hand-grenades.  It’s a wonder that we have escaped so far.”

“Hand-grenades!” gasped Peterkin, going white.

But nobody observed his pallor.  Every one else was gasping, “Hand-grenades!” under his breath; or, if not, his thoughts were shrieking, “Hand-grenades!” There was a restless movement, a wistful look to the rear.

“Keep quiet!” whispered Fracasse.  “Let us hope it isn’t known that we’re here.”

They became as still as men of stone.

“Well, if they are going to throw grenades then they will throw them!” exclaimed Peterkin with the bravery of fear.  He must do or say something worthy of a hero, he thought, in order to prove that he was not as scared as he knew he had looked and still felt.

“You have the right sort of sang-froid, Peter Kinderling!” whispered Fracasse.  “And you, Pilzer, showed a proper spirit, too, if wrongly directed.”