Then, "I don't believe in God," said a pain-racked voice; "I know He doesn't exist—because of the suffering there is. They can tell us all the clap-trap they like, and trim up all the words they can find and all they can make up, but to say that all this innocent suffering could come from a perfect God, it's damned skull-stuffing."
"For my part," another of the men on the seat goes on, "I don't believe in God because of the cold. I've seen men become corpses bit by bit, just simply with cold. If there was a God of goodness, there wouldn't be any cold. You can't get away from that."
"Before you can believe in God, you've got to do away with everything there is. So we've got a long way to go!"
Several mutilated men, without seeing each other, combine in head-shakes of dissent "You're right," says another, "you're right."
These men in ruins, vanquished in victory, isolated and scattered, have the beginnings of a revelation. There come moments in the tragedy of these events when men are not only sincere, but truth-telling, moments when you see that they and the truth are face to face.
"As for me," said a new speaker, "if I don't believe in God, it's—" A fit of coughing terribly continued his sentence.
When the fit passed and his cheeks were purple and wet with tears, some one asked him, "Where are you wounded?"
"I'm not wounded; I'm ill."
"Oh, I see!" they said, in a tone which meant "You're not interesting."