II—THE CONFESSION OF A SLACKER
It was not exactly what one expects from a man wearing the Medaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre with two palms. There was a certain implication in it. It sounded as though he meant that any man not in military uniform was a curiosity seeker or a sensation monger. I said something to that effect.
"No," he said hastily. "Not at all. Not at all. I only meant you could understand now, perhaps what it is that moves men in this, what makes them take part in it."
"Most of the men are conscripts," I said. "You are, I suppose."
"No," he answered. "I am a volunteer. I might be at the rear; I might even be writing for some paper."
It was a fine answer to my brutality.
"I beg your pardon," I said. "You are a volunteer. Tell me why you are here."
"I will tell you my name first," he said. "It is Léon Barbèsse. I was a schoolteacher in the centre of France, married, and with a boy four years old. The war came and I was called to the colors, as every one was called. But I was sent home. My lungs, you know. They are all right now, though. A few months of this life and your lungs kill you or they get all right. Mine are all right."
He struck himself a heavy blow on the chest and grinned.
"I could not have done that in 1914," he said. "I would have coughed for half an hour."