Men and munitions are the only things that count in such an hour; and at Verdun in those perilous times so many thousands of noble men were wounded and cast aside that inconceivable numbers were required to take their places and fill the ranks. Such is the wonderful spirit of France that men always are ready to fill the gaps in the line. They go gladly and I believe they will sacrifice thus until the very end.
Peasants were passing by in haste, dragging two-wheeled push carts loaded with the baubles which they counted dear, but which in death are of little value. Coming and going, coming and going, the two processions moved through the weary hours, and still on the horizon the mouths of Hell belched forth their smoke and fire, and across the field was heard the awful rumbling of the guns. Many different kinds of shells were used, producing different effects which could be distinguished by the various colors of smoke emitted in exploding. They also filled the air with strange and nauseating odors, and the crumbling houses sent up enormous clouds of dust.
Copyright, Underwood & Underwood, N. Y.
AMERICAN AMBULANCES ON THE ROAD TO THE FRONT.
The cars of the Ambulance Field Service rush through maelstroms of shrapnel and high explosive shells to succor the wounded, and then brave the same dangers to get them to the base hospitals in time to relieve their wounds.
Without warning out of the night came a battery of guns with a clatter of horses' hoofs and clamor of wheels on the pavement, and in a few brief moments the sky lighted up with hellish explosions, and then died down again. As the night deepened, regiments of soldiers tramped by and passed out of sight. Then from the distance came the awful roar of a fearful "strafing."
The war hospital during a battle is a fearsome place and it always smells strongly of chloroform and ether. At the door of one of them the brancardiers carry the body of a man who has made a heroic struggle in the race against death. His head is battered fearfully and death has won the race. But then—what is death? The commonest figure that stalks around on the earth today. And, after all, it is not so terrible. A little sooner, or a little later, it comes. All must die. Death is not the dreadful thing, nor even the important thing. It is true, as the poet Cooke has said, "It's not the fact that you're dead that counts, but only how did you die."
I am not preaching in this story. I do want to say, however, that death is not important. Death is not an enemy; not on the Western front. Thousands of better men than we, yes, millions, have met this same fellow and boldly gone with him. They all go, but how did you die? That's it. Let the German answer.