“Why not, oh, why not?”
“I’ll tell you presently. You tell me first what your idea of war is.”
“We have a picture of my great-grandfather in white huzzar uniform,” said Eugene enthusiastically. “He is magnificent. In the hall of our château in France hangs also a painting of my great-great-grandfather, mounted on his charger Austerlitz. He waves his arm in the air; he encourages his men. They are about to charge the enemy. He reminds them that they fight for their country, their emperor—oh! it makes one’s blood stir to look at it.”
“That’s mostly the picture outsiders draw,” said the sergeant mildly. “They always fancy handsome officers, stainless uniforms, a lot of enemies waiting somewhere to be cut down like sheep. It’s all glory and paint and a lot of big figures in histories and newspapers. But there’s another side to it after you’ve been in a battle. In the first place, I should say war is a dirty thing.”
“A dirty thing,” said Eugene wonderingly. “What is that for an epithet?”
“It’s a suitable one,” replied the sergeant coolly. “In the first place, war is dirty; in the second, it’s low; and in the third, it’s needless.”
“I do not understand you;” and Eugene made a gesture expressive of slight contempt.
“Look here,” said the sergeant, dragging his chair up to the table, and bringing a lead-pencil from a drawer. “Here on this side of the table imagine gray men, imagine blue there. They haven’t one earthly thing against each other, but they’ve got to rend and tear each other’s mortal bodies to preserve the independence of the Union. The subject of their dispute is a grand one, a glorious one; and if there wasn’t any other way to settle it they’d have to whack each other, and beat the life out of each other’s bodies, but there is another way.”