eans
that half a dozen men were killed in a group. But reserves filled their
places. They kept pouring out their stream of lead which German
courage could not endure. Thus far and no farther the invasion came
in that wheat-field which will be ever memorable.

We went up a hill once crowned by one of those clusters of farm-
buildings of stone and mortar, where house and stables and
granaries are close together. All around were bare fields. Those farm-
buildings stood up like a mountain peak. The French had the hill and
lost it and recovered it. Whichever side had it, the other was bound to
bathe it in shells because it commanded the country around. The
value of property meant nothing. All that counted was military
advantage. Because churches are often on hill-tops, because they
are bound to be used for lookouts, is why they get torn to pieces.
When two men are fighting for life they don't bother about upsetting a
table with a vase, or notice any "Keep off the grass" signs; no, not
even if the family Bible be underfoot.

None of the roof, none of the superstructure of these farm-buildings
was left; only the lower walls, which were eighteen inches thick and in
places penetrated by the shells. For when a Frenchman builds a
farmhouse he builds it to last a few hundred years. The farm windmill
was as twisted as a birdcage that has been rolled under a trolley car,
but a large hayrake was unharmed. Such is the luck of war. I made
up my mind that if I ever got under shell-fire I would make for the
hayrake and avoid the windmill.

Our tall major pointed out all the fluctuating positions during the battle.
It was like hearing a chess match explained from memory by an
expert. Words to him were something precious. He made each one
count as he would the shots from his cannon. His narrative had the
lucidity of a terse judge reviewing evidence. The battlefield was
etched on his mind in every important phase of its action.

Not once did he speak in abuse of the enemy. The staff officer who
directs steel ringing on steel is too busy thrusting and keeping guard
to indulge in diatribes. To him the enemy is a powerful impersonal
devil, who must be beaten. When I asked about the conduct of the
Germans in the towns they occupied, his lip tightened and his eyes
grew hard.

"I'm afraid it was pretty bad!" he said; as if he felt, besides the wrong
to his own people, the shame that men who had fought so bravely
should act so ill. I think h