"There is one battalion," he said; "one unit composed of a thousand lesser units—each unit a man with a soul like yours and mine; with hopes and ambitions; with women to love him; and now marching to death, perhaps, in the ranks yonder without in the least knowing why. There are four million such units in the army the Emperor can call into the field. I am one of them—I shall march like the rest!"
"You!"
"Yes—I am a private in the Elberfeld battalion." He spread out his delicate, sensitive, surgeon's hands and looked at them. "I was at one time a sergeant," he added, "but my discipline did not satisfy my lieutenant and I was reduced to the ranks."
Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert. How vividly they typified the waste of war!
"But it's absurd," he protested, "that a man like you—highly-trained, highly-educated, a specialist—should be made to shoulder a rifle. In the ranks, you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant."
"Not so much," corrected Bloem. "Our ideal soldier is one whose obedience is instant and unquestioning."
"But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient—in the hospital corps, perhaps?"
"There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men must fight! Besides, I am suspected of having too many ideas!"
He sat for a moment longer staring down at his hands—staring too, perhaps, at his career so ruthlessly shattered—then he shook himself together and glanced across at his companion with a wry little smile.
"You will think me a great croaker!" he said. "It was the first shock—the thought of everything going to pieces. In a day or two, I shall be marching as light-heartedly as all the others—knowing only that I am fighting the enemies of my country—and wishing to know no more!"