one lends a hand to number two and pulls him out.  Meanwhile enemy fire is hot.  The line forms in open order.  The blood curdling yells begin—­and mingle in an animal roar that sounds like the howl of an orang-outang in the circus just before it is fed at the after-show!  It is the voice of hell.  Then the line walks—­not runs, but walks under machine gun and shell fire to the enemy trench; for experience has proven that if the men run into that fire they will be out of breath and probably go down in the hand-to-hand, knee-to-knee, eye-to-eye conflict with knife and bayonet and gun butt that always occurs when they go over the top to charge the enemy trench.  As they near the enemy trench the bestial howl rises, and as they jump into the shell-shattered trenches the howl is maniacal.  In the trenches are canvas bags made to represent wounded enemies.  The first wave over the top leaves these bags for the stretcher bearers.  But by the time the next wave comes over, or the third wave comes, the stretcher bearers are supposed to have cleared the trenches of wounded enemies, and after that every soldier is supposed to jab his bayonet in every bag in the trenches, as he is expected to jab every dead body, to prevent an enemy from playing possum and then getting to a presumably disabled enemy machine gun and shooting our soldiers in the back.  Every time a student soldier jabs a canvas bag he snarls and growls like a jackal, and if he misses a bag it counts against him in the day’s markings.  Wave after wave comes over, and prisoners are sent to the rear, if there are guards to take them.  If not prisoners are killed, and one does not waste ammunition on them.  It may be well to pause here to say that in the gentle art of murdering the business of taking prisoners is not elaborately worked out.  They learn that by rote, rather than by note.  The Canadians, since two of their men were crucified by the Prussians, take few Prussian prisoners.  Here is a snap-back of the film.  It is the Rue di Rivoli in Paris.  Two lanky youngsters in Canadian uniform are talking to Henry and me.

“What part of the states do you Canadians come from?” we ask.  They grin and answer, “San Francisco.”

We:  “What’s this story about you Canadians not taking any prisoners?”

They:  “Oh, we take prisoners—­all right, I guess!”

We:  “Well, how often?”

They:  “Oh, sometimes.”

We:  “Come on now, boys, as Californians to Kansans, tell us the truth.”

The tall one looked at the short one for permission to tell the truth, and got it.  Then he said: 

“Well, it’s like this.  We go into a trench after them damn brutes has been playing machine guns on us, knowing as soon as we get in they’ll surrender, but trying to kill as many of us as they can before they give up.  Then they raise up their hands and begin yelling, ‘Kamerade, Kamerade,’ and someone says, ’Come on, fellers, let’s take this poor beggar,’ and we’re about to do it when along comes a chap and sees this devil, and up goes a gun by the barrel, and whack it comes down on the Boche’s head, and the feller says, ‘No, damn him, he killed my pal,’ and we polishes him off! polishes him off and cleans out the trench.”