and everything. . . . Thank God, they know naught of war down here. . . . I don't know why I have written all this stuff, but the music has just guided my pencil, and after battered towns, dead bodies, suffering families and devastated fields all you most think of is love and beauty.
Says Captain Roger Fulton Goss, who died of influenza at Camp Greene, in North Carolina:
You feel that you are getting a good deal out of yourself—your physical organism and your mental and moral capacities—but you are sacrificing, nevertheless, the imaginative possibilities of unregimented "individual life," where a man is the focus of many demands and is the agent of many enterprises—and can play "the great lover."
In the last memoir to which I shall call attention, a rather ordinary or "average" boy is commemorated—so I infer from an introductory paragraph in which, with inveterate Harvard condescension, the author reminds us that a certain number of undergraduates come from the "central states," with nothing but "the local high school" behind them, and yet have a "wholesome" influence in Cambridge.
Osric Mills Watkins, an Indiana boy in the American aviation section, aged twenty-one, who died of pneumonia at Bar-le-Duc in 1918, wrote three letters from France which constitute the body of his six-page life in the "Memoirs." In the first, in which he announces to his parents his decison to enter the air service, he says: "I promise you that I will do well in this; that I will face all things unafraid, both physical and abstract, as I have always tried to do in the
