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Updated: June 5, 2025
War's a queer game not at all what one's civilian mind imagined; it's far more horrible and less exciting. The horrors which the civilian mind dreads most are mutilation and death. Out here we rarely think about them; the thing which wears on one most and calls out his gravest courage is the endless sequence of physical discomfort.
And then: "If you think the war's over, just talk to any one who's been in it and see if they think the Germans are all in. They don't. Nobody does. I've talked to the people that know, and they say there'll be, anyways, a year longer of war. They don't think it's over. So you men better not get any foolish ideas that it is."
Thou'lt visit lands that war's wild train Had crushed with careless heed; Now smiling peace salutes the plain, And strews the golden seed. The hoary Father Rhine thou'lt greet, Who thy forefather blest Will think of, whilst his waters fleet In ocean's bed to rest. Do homage to the hero's manes, And offer to the Rhine, The German frontier who maintains, His own-created wine,
For honour's sake men face again the music of that infernal orchestra, and listen with a deadly sickness in their hearts to the song of the shell screaming the French word for kill, which is tue! tue! It was at night that I used to see the full splendour of the war's infernal beauty.
It appeared certain that we must perish, but even that was not the bitterest thought; no, the abjectly unheroic nature of the death that was the sting that and the bizarre wording of the resulting obituary: "SHOT WITH A ROCK, ON A RAFT." There would be no poetry written about it. None COULD be written about it. Example: NOT by war's shock, or war's shaft, SHOT, with a rock, on a raft.
"Tie that bull outside," came from every side of the ward. "Fellers," shouted Stalky louder than ever, "it's straight dope, the war's over. I just dreamt the Kaiser came up to me on Fourteenth Street and bummed a nickel for a glass of beer. The war's over. Don't you hear the whistles?" "All right; let's go home." "Shut up, can't you let a feller sleep?"
We saw him ferreting about, frail as a poor monkey on the terrible crest. At last he put his hand on the cap and jumped into the trench. A smile sparkled in his eyes and in the middle of his beard, and his brass "cold meat ticket" jingled on his shaggy wrist. They took the body away. The men carried it and a third followed with the cap. One of us said, "The war's over for him!"
Miss Lucy smiled to herself, while she allowed them to do as they pleased. "Will they keep till to-morrow, s'pose?" Questioned Elsie anxiously. "Of course," answered Polly. "Why?" "Cause they'll help celebrate," Elsie returned. "Celebrate what?" queried Polly, wiping a drop of overrunning water from the glass which Miss Lucy had supplied. "Why, the war's birthday! Don't you know about it?"
To wait five minutes outside a house was to court investigation and possibly arrest. There was no sound except that of footfalls and a low murmur of conversation. It was the first night of war's stern government. Germany officially declared war upon France at five forty-five this evening.
But history has never yet revealed a military leader who, having the advantage of numbers, did not make the most of it. Had Grant been waging war for war's sake, or been so enamored with his profession as to care more for its fine points than for the success of his cause, he might have evolved some more subtle and less brutal plan.
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