"There will likely be others, Whitcomb. You must get used to it. The fortunes of war, you know."
But a fellow of Herbert's make-up never could, nor did he ever, get used to such a thing. Though not the less determined to do his duty, he was now more than ever down on and disgusted with the whole useless, hateful, miserable business of war.
Down the slope toward the German trenches lay four dead Germans, perhaps some of them not quite dead; possibly still suffering, bleeding, dying slowly, and where they could not be reached because of the unremitting desire of both sides to take every advantage of an enemy. There was no such thing as the white flag for purposes of succoring the wounded in No Man's Land.
[CHAPTER XIII]
The Traitor in Camp
Corporal Whitcomb could not sleep. There was no particular reason for this, except mental worry and a too vivid imagination. Was the life in trench and gun pit getting on his nerve? Was he, a mere boy, too much over-wrought with his responsibility? Not so; the sort of happy disposition that he possessed never balks at nerve strain nor breaks with the effort of duty, no matter how urgent, or disappointing the result.
Despite the trials upon his sense of justice and naturally gentle regard for humanity he knew only duty and strove with an intense effort to perform every task entrusted to him.