m, idiotic and almost insane. Why, the world itself could not
suffer two more years of war. It would end before then in general
anarchy, the wild revolutions of armies on all fronts. Humanity of every
nation would revolt against such prolonged slaughter... It was I who was
mad, in the foolish faith that the war would end before another year had
passed, because I thought that would be the limit of endurance of such
mutual massacre.

In a room next to those two officers--a week before this battle, the
captain had been rowing with his wife on the lake at Potsdam--was
another prisoner, who wept and wept. He had escaped to our lines before
the battle to save his skin, and now was conscience-stricken and thought
he had lost his soul. What stabbed his conscience most was the thought
that his wife and children would lose their allowances because of his
treachery. He stared at us with wild, red eyes.

"Ach, mein armes Weib! Meine Kinder!... Ach, Gott in Himmel!"

He had no pride, no dignity, no courage.

This tall, bearded man, father of a family, put his hands against the
wall and laid his head on his arm and wept.

XII

During the battle, for several days I went with other men to various
points of view, trying to see something of the human conflict from slag
heaps and rising ground, but could only see the swirl and flurry of
gun-fire and the smoke of shells mixing with wet mist, and the backwash
of wounded and prisoners, and the traffic of guns, and wagons, and
supporting troops. Like an ant on the edge of a volcano I sat among
the slag heaps with gunner observers, who were listening at telephones
dumped down in the fields and connected with artillery brigades and
field batteries.

"The Guards are fighting round Fosse 8," said one of these observers.

Through the mist I could see Fosse 8, a flat-topped hill of coal-dust.
Little glinting lights were playing about it, like confetti shining
in the sun. That was German shrapnel. Eruptions of red flame and black
earth vomited out of the hill. That was German high explosive. For a
time on Monday, September 27th, it was the storm-center of battle.

"What's that?" asked an artillery staff-officer, with his ear to the
field telephone. "What's that?... Hullo!... Are you there?... The Guards
have been kicked off Fosse 8... Oh, hell!"

From all parts of the field of battle such whispers came to listening
men and were passed on to headquarters, where other men listened.