been stationed at a base he might have halved
his epigram and described war as months of boredom unpunctuated even
by terror.

Yet even behind the lines, in the remotest places, that which moves
our admiration far outshines what is sordid and mean. We still bless,
not war, but soldiers. We forget the failures of man in joyful
contemplation of his achievements.

Here are the great hospitals, where suffering men succeed each other
day after day, so that we seem to see a mist of pain rising like a
ceaseless cloud of incense smoke for the nostrils of the abominable
Moloch who is the god of war. A man, though long inured to such
things, may curse the Moloch, but he will bless the sufferers who
form the sacrifice. Their patience, their silent heroism, are beyond
our praise.

Here are huge cemeteries, long lines of graves, where every morning
some are laid to rest, with reverence indeed, but with scant measure
of the ritual pomp with which men are wont to pay their final honour
to the dead. These have passed, not in a moment amid the roar of
battle, but after long bearing of pain, and lonely, with the time for
last farewells but none greatly loved to say them to. Yet, standing
above the lines of rude coffins, viewing the names and numbers
pencilled on the lids, our hearts are lifted up. We know how great it
is to lay down life for others. The final wailing notes of the "Last
Post" speak our feeling: "Good night. Good-bye. See you again, soon."

Here, among those less worthy, are men who are steadily doing,
without much hope of praise, things intolerably monotonous, doing
them day after day for years, inspired by what Ruskin calls "the
unvexed instinct of duty." Often these are old men, too old for field
command. They have spent their lives in the army, have learned, have
worked, have waited in the hope that some day their chance would
come. Soldiers by profession and desire, they have looked for the
great opportunity which the war they foresaw would give. The war came
and the opportunity; but came too late for them. They can look for
nothing but the dull duties of the base. They do them, enduring minor
hardships, facing ceaseless worries, going calmly on, while the great
stream of war on which they hoped to float moves on, leaving them
behind. With them are others, younger men, who have seen some
fighting, have been wounded or broken in health. Often they have
struggled hard to secure the posts they hold. They might have