he enemy's line. It rolled into their
trenches, and in a second those men were choking and gasping for breath.
Their lungs filled with the rotten stuff, and they were dying by dozens
in the most terrible agony, beating off even as they died a part of the
"brave" Prussian army as it came up behind those gas clouds; came up
with gas masks on and bayonets dripping with the blood of men lying on
the ground fighting, true, but for breath. A great army, that Prussian
army! And what a "glorious" victory! Truly should the Hun be proud! So
far as I am concerned, Germany did not lose the war at the battle of the
Marne, at the Aisne, or at the Yser. She lost it there at Ypres, on
April 22, 1915. It is no exaggeration when I say our eagerness to work,
to complete our training, to learn how to kill, so we could take our
places in the line, and help fight off those mad people, grew by the
hour. _They_ stiffened our backs and made us fighting mad. We saw what
they had done to our boys from Canada; they and their gas. The effect on
our battalion was the effect on the whole army, and, I am quite sure, on
the rest of the world. They put themselves beyond the pale. They
compelled the world to look on them as mad dogs, and to treat them as
mad dogs. We trained in England until August, when we went to France. To
all outward appearances we were still happy, carefree soldiers, all out
for a good time. We were happy! We were happy we were there, and down
deep there was solid satisfaction, not on account of the
different-colored books that were issuing from every chancellory in
Europe, but from a feeling rooted in white men's hearts, backed by the
knowledge of Germany's conduct, that we were there in a righteous cause.
Our second stop in our march toward the line was a little village which
had been occupied by the Boches in their mad dash toward Paris. Our
billet was a farm just on the edge of the village. The housewife
permitted us in her kitchen to do our cooking, at the same time selling
us coffee. We stayed there two or three days and became quite friendly
with her, even if she did scold us for our muddy boots. Two pretty
little kiddies played around the house, got in the way, were scolded and
spanked and in the next instant loved to death by Madame. Then she would
parade them before a picture of a clean-cut looking Frenchman in the
uniform of the army, and say something about "apres la guerre." In a
little crib to one side of the room was a