s which loaded the cold, close air.
Then, no one knows who began it, one of the patients showed the nurse a
photograph of his wife and child, and in a moment every man in the
twenty beds was fishing back of his bed, in his _musette_, under his
pillow, for photographs of his wife. They all had wives, it seems, for
remember, these were the old troops, who had replaced the young Zouaves
who had guarded this part of the Front all summer. One by one they came
out, these photographs, from weatherbeaten sacks, from shabby boxes,
from under pillows, and the nurse must see them all. Pathetic little
pictures they were, of common, working-class women, some fat and
work-worn, some thin and work-worn, some with stodgy little children
grouped about them, some without, but all were practically the same.
They were the wives of these men in the beds here, the working-class
wives of working-class men--the soldiers of the trenches. Ah yes, France
is democratic. It is the Nation's war, and all the men of the Nation,
regardless of rank, are serving. But some serve in better places than
others. The trenches are mostly reserved for men of the working class,
which is reasonable, as there are more of them.

The rain beat down, and the little stove glowed, and the afternoon drew
to a close, and the photographs of the wives continued to pass from hand
to hand. There was much talk of home, and much of it was longing, and
much of it was pathetic, and much of it was resigned. And always the
little, ugly wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented home. And
the words home and wife were interchangeable and stood for the same
thing. And the glories and heroisms of war seemed of less interest, as
a factor in life, than these stupid little wives.

Then Armand, the chief orderly, showed them all the photograph of his
wife. No one knew that he was married, but he said yes, and that he
received a letter from her every day--sometimes it was a postcard. Also
that he wrote to her every day. We all knew how nervous he used to get,
about letter time, when the _vaguemestre_ made his rounds, every
morning, distributing letters to all the wards. We all knew how
impatient he used to get, when the _vaguemestre_ laid his letter upon
the table, and there it lay, on the table, while he was forced to make
rounds with the surgeon, and could not claim it until long afterwards.
So it was from his wife, that daily letter, so anxiously, so nervously
awaited!

Simon had