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. But why ace of diamonds? That I cannot explain.

The "as" can be found in every branch of the Army, and he is recognised
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."

All that I know of the "as" I have gathered from the French satirical
paper, a child of the War, _La Baionette_. This paper comes out every
week and devotes itself, as its forerunner, _L'Assiette au 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 his hoofs; a very wide woman at the
dwelling-house door; the old farmer in blue linen looking on; and there,
drawn up, listening to their Captain, row on row of blue-coated men, all
hard-bitten, weary, all rather cynical, all weather-stained and frayed,
and all ready to go on for ever.

This is what the Captain said--a tall thin man of about thirty, speaking
calmly and naturally as though he was readi