Then I read the militarists and
they say, "Be hard. Live dangerously. War is beneficent," and I see the
wrecked villages of Belgium, with the homeless peasants and the orphaned
babies. War ennobles some men by sacrifice, by heroism. It debases other
men by handing over the weak to them for torture and murder. What is in
the man comes out under the supreme test, where there are no courts of
appeal, no public opinion, no social restraint; only the soldier alone
with helpless victims.
You can't share the chances of life and death with people, without
feeling a something in common with them, that you do not have even with
life-long friends. The high officer and the cockney Tommy have that
linking up. There was one person whom I couldn't grow to like. But with
him I have shared a ticklish time, and there is that cord of connection.
Then, too, one is glad of a record of oneself. There is some one to
verify what you say. You have passed through an unbelievable thing
together, and you have a witness.
Henri, our Belgian orderly, has that feeling for us, and we for him. It
isn't respect, nor fondness, alone. Companionship meant for him new
shirts, dry boots, more chocolate, a daily supply of cigarettes. It
meant our seeing the picture of wife and child in Liege, hearing about
his home. It was the sharing of danger, the facing together of the
horror that underlies life, and which we try to forget in soft peace
days.
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