on was military
punishment, which was far worse--to say nothing of the outrage to his
pride. It was pride that kept the little ironical smile on his lips
while his nerves were almost breaking with strain. The first time he
came under fire he was physically sick--not from fear, for he stood it
better than most, keeping an eye on his captain, whose function it was
to show an unconcerned face--but from sheer nervous reaction against
the hideous noise, the stench, the ghastly upheaval of the earth, the
sight of mangled men. When the bombardment was over, if he had been
alone, he would have sat down and cried. Never had he grown accustomed
to the foulness of the trenches. The sounder his physical condition,
the more did his delicately trained senses revolt. It was only when
fierce animal cravings dulled these senses that he could throw himself
down anywhere and sleep, that he could swallow anything in the way of
food or drink. The rats nearly drove him crazy.... Yet, what had once
been to him a torture, the indecent, nerve-rasping publicity of the
soldier's life, had now become a compensation. It was not so much in
companionship, like his friendly intercourse with Phineas and Mo, that
he found an anodyne, but in the consciousness of being magnetically
affected by the crowd of his fellows. They offered him protection
against himself. Whatever pangs of self-pity he felt, whatever wan
little pleadings for the bit of fine porcelain compelled to a rough
usage which vessels of coarser clay could disregard came lingeringly
into his mind, he dared not express them to a living soul around. On
the contrary, he set himself assiduously to cultivate the earthenware
habit of spirit; not to feel, not to think, only to endure. To a
humorously incredulous Jeanne he proclaimed himself _abruti_. Finally,
the ceaseless grind of the military machine left him little time to
think.

But in the solitary sleepless hours of sentry duty there was nothing
to do but think; nothing wherewith to while away the time but an orgy
of introspection. First came the almost paralysing sense of
responsibility. He must keep, not only awake, but alert to the
slightest sound, the slightest movement. Lives of men depended on his
vigilance. A man can't screw himself up to this beautifully emotional
pitch for very long and be an efficient sentry. If he did, he would
challenge mice and shoot at cloud-shadows and bring the deuce of a
commotion about his ears. And this Do