been among the many "also rans." Her husband—an officer in the infantry—grinned affably from another table.
"In a moment," I answered her, "I will come, and you won't like me at all when I do." Then I remembered something. "Why do you dine with that scoundrel?"
"Who?—My funny old Dick? A dreadful sight, isn't he, but quite harmless."
"Is he? You ask him about the German at Les Boeufs whom he met unexpectedly, and see what he says."
The "Ballad of Boh da Thone" came back—the humour of it. Dick—the old blackguard—a rifle butt, and a German's head after he'd hit it—one side; a boiled shirt, dress clothes, and a general air of complacent peacefulness—the other. And the girl: it is always the girl who points the contrast. ...
I laughed. "Go away, and talk to your harmless husband. I am wrapped in thought, or was, till you disturbed me."
What did she know—God bless her—of the details, the filthy, necessary details of war. To her it was just a parting from one man, who went into an unknown land where there was danger—hideous, intangible danger.
But of the reality. ...
It is all contained in the one axiom—Kill, and kill at once, so as to have a maximum of time to kill more. And with the bayonet, do not let it be
