of the term. But later, as I
gather from a number of _La Baionnette_ devoted to its uses, the word
has been extended to cover all kinds of obscure heroes, the men, and
they are by no means rare, who do wonderful things but do not get into
the papers or receive medals or any mention in dispatches. We all know
that many of the finest deeds performed in war escape recognition. One
does not want to suggest that V.C.'s and D.S.O.'s and Military Crosses
and all the other desirable tokens of valour are conferred wrongly.
Nothing of the kind. They are nobly deserved. But probably there never
was a recipient of the V.C. or the D.S.O. or the Military Cross who
could not--and did not wish to--tell his Sovereign, when the coveted
honour was being pinned to his breast, of some other soldier not less
worthy than himself of being decorated, whose deed of gallantry was
performed under less noticeable conditions. The performer of such a deed
is an "as" and it is his luck to be a not public hero.

The "as" can be found in every branch of the army, and he is recognized
as one by his comrades, even although the world at large is ignorant.
Perhaps we shall find a word for his British correlative, who must be
numerically very strong too. The letter A alone might do it, signifying
anonymous. "Voila, un as!" says the French soldier, indicating one of
these brave modest fellows who chances to be passing. "You see that
chap," one of our soldiers would say; "he's an A."

That satirical child of the war, _La Baionnette_ every week devotes
itself, as its forerunner, _L'Assiette an Beurre_, used to do, to one
theme at a time, one phase or facet of the struggle, usually in the
army, but also in civil life, where changes due to the war steadily
occur. In the number dedicated to the glory of the "as" I find recorded
an incident of the French Army so moving that I want to tell it here,
very freely, in English. It was, says the writer, before the attack at
Carency--and he vouches for the accuracy of his report, for he was
himself present. In the little village of Camblain-l'Abbe a regiment was
assembled, and to them spoke their captain. The scene was the yard of a
farm. I know so well what it was like. The great manure heap in the
middle; the carts under cover, with perhaps one or two American reapers
and binders among them; fowls pecking here and there; a thin predatory
dog nosing about; a cart-horse peering from his stable and now and then
scraping h