“The chief of staff stopped the letters because he said that mothers who received none took it for granted that their sons were dead,” explained the judge’s son.  “Besides, he asserts that casualties are not heavy and asks for patience in the name of patriotism.”

“The—!” exclaimed Pilzer, referring to Westerling.  He who had set out to be an officers’ favorite had become bitter against all officers, high and low.

Peterkin was speechlessly aghast.  The others said nothing.  They were used to Pilzer’s oaths and obscenity, with a growing inclination to profanity on their own part.  Besides, they rather agreed with his view of the chief of staff.

“Did you see many dead and wounded?” asked a very tired voice, that of one of the older reservists who was emaciated, with a complexion like blue mould.

“How can I tell you what I saw?  Ought I to tell you?”

“When you’ve had to wipe a piece of brains out of your eye, as I have—­it was warm and jelly-like,” said Pilzer, “you ain’t as squeamish as Hugo Mallin.  I wonder they don’t give him a bronze cross!”

“Bronze crosses are given for bravery in action,” said Peterkin in his new-fashioned parrot way since he had become great.  “You should not do anything to affect the spirit of corps.”

“The boy wonder from the butler’s pantry!  Our dear, natty little buttons!  Bullets glide off him!” snarled Pilzer, who had set out to win a bronze cross, only to see it won by a pygmy.

“Did you see many dead and wounded?” persisted the very tired voice of the old reservist.

“Yes, yes—­and every kind of destruction!” answered the judge’s son.  “And—­I kept thinking of Hugo Mallin.”

“I’m glad they didn’t shoot Hugo,” said the very tired voice.  “I’m sorry for his old father and mother.  I’m a father myself.”

“I certainly had a good farewell kick at him!” declared Pilzer.  “Lean on yourself!” he added, giving a shove to the old reservist who was next him.

“I saw men who had ceased to be human.  That reminds me, Pilzer,” the judge’s son went on, “I saw one wounded man, lying beside another, turn and strike him, and he said:  ‘I had to hit somebody or something!’ And I heard a wounded man who was waiting in line before the surgeon’s table say:  ‘There’s others hurt worse than me.  I can wait.’  I heard men begging the doctors to put them out of their misery.  I saw two dead men with their hands clasped as they were when they died.  Then there were the men who went mad.  One had to be held by force.  He kept crying with demoniacal laughs:  ’I want to go back and kill—­kill!  Let’s all kill, kill, kill!’ Another insisted on dancing, despite a bandaged leg.  ’Look, look at the little red spots!’ he was saying.  ’You must step on one every time; if you don’t, the automatic will get you!’ Another declared that he had been through hell and insisted that he would live forever now.  Another was an artist, a landscape-painter, who had lost his eyesight.  He was seeing beautiful landscapes, and the nurses had to strap him to his cot to keep him from struggling to his feet and trying to use an imaginary brush on imaginary canvases.  He died seeing beautiful landscapes.