As for me—you remember, dear Colonel—I was distraught and beside myself, and could only murmur, "Poor devils! Poor devils!" You were calmer, more familiar (is it possible?) with these horrors. Yet your sad eyes were a proof to me that even soldiers do feel.
I remember, as we turned to leave the field of death and honour, you looked back, and I noticed that just in front of you, right in your path, was a human head, already fleshless—a skull.
I seized you by the arm. "Stop!" I cried. Too late! Your heavy boots—— The thing crushed like a broken egg-shell. I heard you say, "God, if it were him!" "Who? What? Him?" I said. You didn't answer. You were on your knees. The decaying cloth of the collar yielded to your searching hands. The disc? Yes, there it was! ... I hear you now! I shall never forget your cry: "Ronny, my Ronny!"
[CHAPTER VII.]
PIPING OUT THE DAY.
14th November.
It is just before sunset—the most impressive moment of the day in these British lines. Now, wherever the British soldiers meet their bands, the following picture may be seen.
We were returning from the trenches, a few evenings ago, at about four o'clock. The sky was cloudy; the ground heavy. As the night fell, a cold, penetrating fog enveloped the whole countryside. We were walking thoughtfully along, our minds busy with those impressions of the war which had greeted us, without pause, since morning. We said little, for we were very ready for our beds.