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The Southerners at the war's opening had the advantage of an almost universal familiarity with the rifle, and now they used it well. Sherburne's two hundred men, always cool and steady, fired like trained marksmen, and the others did almost as well. Most of them had new rifles, using cartridges, and no cavalry on earth could stand before such a fire.
As we returned we gathered round Termite and one spoke for the rest. "You're an anarchist, then?" "No," said Termite, "I'm an internationalist. That's why I enlisted." "Ah!" He tried to throw light on his words. "You understand, I'm against all wars." "All wars! But there's times when war's good. There's defensive war."
Until the summer of 1916 she was very busy, either in her mother's hospital or in one in Munich run by a group of Socialist friends under Marie von Erkel. She glanced at the English papers sometimes, but assumed that their versions of the war's origin, and of Germanic methods, were for home effect, and smiled at their occasional claims of victory. Poor things!
He said they'd have a better chance with me, because they would save the women and children first." "Just as we thought," said Sir James. "He said they were very important that they might make all the difference to the Allies. But, if it's all so long ago, and the war's over, what does it matter now?" "I guess history repeats itself, Jane.
At 2.20 in the afternoon a large force of Germans advanced between Louvemont and Hill 347, and though the French made desperate efforts to stay the advancing waves, Les Chambrettes, Beaumont, and Fosses and Caures Woods were occupied by the enemy. Naval events such as the world had never known were believed to be impending at the beginning of the war's second year.
"Not lately," Henry answered, "but I shall hear of him to-morrow when I get to Boveyhayne. I'll write and let you know!" "My Big Army book's gone to pot, of course!" Roger went on. "At present anyhow!..." "The War's done for the Improved Tories, I suppose?" "Absolutely. They've all enlisted. Ashley Earls is in the R.A.M.C. He went in last week. He couldn't go before ... he was ill.
His great neck and fat face were fiery red with heat and excitement, and he panted as he gave them his news. "Old Jim Rowlett's done been shot at from ther bresh!" he told them. "He escaped death, but men says ther war's like ter bust, loose ergin because of hit." "My God!" exclaimed Bas Rowlett in a tone of shocked incredulity; "old Jim hain't got no enemies.
There was a piano in an inner room, where in the dark the chairs, upside down, perched dismally on the table tops. He almost obeyed an impulse to go in there and start playing, by the brilliance of his playing to force these men, who thought of him as a coarse automaton, something between a man and a dog, to recognize him as an equal, a superior. "But the war's over. I want to start living.
"Wal, thar mout be some shaver dat's big enough to go, but Marse War's dat keerful ter please Marse Desmit dat he takes 'em all outen de field afore dey can well toddle," said the woman doubtfully. "Well, come and take my horse," said he, as he began to descend from his gig, "and send for Mr. Ware to come up at once."
Naturally. They're out fighting. But when they come home on leave, life goes on just the same as before tennis parties, little dances, dinners. Of course, lots of people are hard hit. Did I tell you that Jack Paunceby was killed the only son? The war's awful and dreadful, I know but if we don't go through with it cheerfully, what's the good of us?" "I think I'm pretty cheerful," said Doggie.
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