snatched from his peaceful environment into the intricacies and glamor of camp life. He wanted to go. He joined of his own accord. He wished to go because all the white boys of Galvey were going. There wasn't much hatred in the heart of Enoch. Nor did he realize the horrors which lay before him. But he went because it was, he believed, the right thing to do. He was only nineteen when he enlisted.
He was always good-natured, always friendly but camp life was a veritable maze to him, sleeping in a barrack that was a madhouse of quarreling, laughter and noise, eating in a mess-hall that resembled a riot, executing the Manual of Arms and frequently almost executing himself. It was all strange to him but he tried very hard and in a way he succeeded. He was never much of a soldier. He failed miserably in hatred but then it is doubtful if many soldiers on either side ever succeeded to any measurable degree in hating. Propaganda, lies, distorted stories of fiendish cruelties had to be resorted to endlessly to
keep the baser emotions of men in ferment.
