One soldier confesses he feels the cord tightening round his neck each day. “Every advance means more danger,” says another gloomily. A third shows me his cartridge case. “Four for the enemy, one for the Kaiser,” is his pithy comment. There is an infectious air of gaiety about the frontier-sheltered lads, which is lacking in those who have once been shot over. As for the men with sad faces, it is enough to see their hands. They usually wear a wedding ring on the third finger.
The soldiers have remarkable ideas on the subject of the present campaign. Many honestly believe, and have probably been told so by their officers, that Belgium wantonly declared war on Germany. They say gleefully, “all the world is against us,” and tick off the various countries on their fingers. They simulate nothing but contempt for all concerned—except the French. Of them they have a wholesome awe. Perhaps they are right. A man’s punch must have an extra kick in it when backed by three decades of hate....
“Russia! The Cossacks look fierce, but they run away,” say the Uhlans. “England. A mere handful of men. What are a hundred and fifty thousand to us.” They jerk their thumbs over the shoulders as though casting England to the deuce. “The French, yes. Terrible men, the French. But we shall win.”
I hope they will meet the English soon and get their ideas put right, as they surely will....
THE SIGN OF THE RED CROSS
We no longer inhabit a cheerful Belgian village. In an unaccustomed country we must train ourselves to meet new laws. On Sunday we go to church. After service from the good Curé, M. le Directeur reads out to us a list of rules.
We must not collect in crowds, nor speak more than three in the village street.
We must not hide in the houses, but go about our ordinary avocations when the soldiers pass, or they will suspect a plot.
We must never run away—unless we want a bullet in the back—but throw up our hands when called upon to do so.
We must never do this and we must remember that, or we may expect to be bowled over as lightly as the wood blocks in that skittle alley which is the “distraction” of the Ardennois Sunday.