At his shapeless, rolling waist his belt hung heavy with
a bayonet in its casing. On the shoulder rested a dirt-caked spade, with
a clanking of metal where the bayonet and the Billy-can struck the
handle of the spade. Under a peaked cap showed the bearded face and the
white of strained eyes gleaming through dust and sweat. The man was too
tired to smile and talk. The weight of the pack, the weight of the
clothes, the dust, the smiting sun--all weighted down the man, leaving
every line in his body sagging and drooping with weariness.
These are the men that spade the trenches, drive the food-transports and
ammunition-wagons, and carry through the detail duties of small honor
that the army may prosper. When has it happened before that the older
generation holds up the hands of the young? At the western front they
stand fast that the youth may go forward. They fill in the shell-holes
to make a straight path for less-tired feet. They drive up food to give
good heart to boys.
War is easy for the young. The boy soldier is willing to make any day
his last if it is a good day. It is not so with the middle-aged man. He
is puzzled by the war. What he has to struggle with more than bodily
weakness is the malady of thought. Is the bloody business worth while?
Is there any far-off divine event which his death will hasten? The wines
of France are good wines, and his home in fertile Normandy was pleasant.
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