Chapter IV
And now once more it was spring in Galvey but there was no warmth of spring in the soul of Scobee Trent. The tragedy which he faced now that peace had come to the world was far worse than the tragedy of war. He was confronted by obstacles that were unsurmountable. Sometimes he sat for hours peering into that velvet blackness. How far, how far did it extend? War was a horror, a relentless horror from which there was no escape. And all over the United States, Canada, Great Britain, France, Italy, Russia, Austria, Germany there were countless other boys in the same pitiable condition as himself, future ruined, hope blasted, slag from the furnace of war.
[40]
