"You are married?"
"Yes; I am married."
"Have you any children?"
"No."
"I have—two."
He rose and said, with a wave of his hand: "I own a brickyard over there, in Hanover. I am a peaceful man. I have managed the brickyard all my life. I wanted peace—and I have gone to war. And now we are living like moles. We sleep in the water. We risk our lives every minute. People have gone mad. Black has become white, and white black. Tell me, why are we fighting?"
"Your Wilhelm wanted it!"
"Ach! Wilhelm! And did my children want war? Wilhelm wanted it and they did not want it. And I obeyed not them, but Wilhelm! And here I am, on French, on foreign soil, beside you, in this hole; and perhaps I shall die to-day. I shall die, or you will. They will kill me or you. Why? What for? For Germany? For my brickyard? When will this war end? When will we go home again? Or shall we not go home? Tell me, why are we fighting?"
I wanted to answer him. I wanted to tell him that we Frenchmen were defending our country, and that the Germans were bandits, not guests! But I suddenly felt that I was thrown up into the air, that it had become hot, that there was a rank smell of smoke, and that everything about me was red. This lasted a second—or it may have been a year—and when I came to myself I saw the blue sky overhead. I made an effort to rise. I noticed that the crater was smashed down at the edge, and had grown smaller and deeper. From beneath the overturned, damp earth a pair of boots stuck forth, worn at the heel; and beside them, close to me, lay an officer's cap, with the brim torn off. I understood—my companion had been killed. My arm ached; I stumbled and lost consciousness. During the night the men of my regiment picked me up.