For Us Lads Of Eighteen They Ought

Strange How Complicated We Can Make Things Just To Avoid Showing What We Feel!

We March Up, Moody Or Good-tempered Soldiers - We Reach The Zone Where The Front Begins And Become On The Instant Human Animals.

To Me The Front Is A Mysterious Whirlpool. Though I Am In Still Water Far Away From Its Centre, I Feel The Whirl Of The Vortex Sucking Me Slowly, Irresistibly, Inescapably Into Itself.

A Man Can Gasp Out His Life Beside You-and You Feel None Of It. Pity, Sympathy, Sure-but You Don't Feel The Pain. Your Belly Is Whole And That's What Counts. A Half-yard Away Someone's World Is Snuffled Out In Roaring Agony-and You Feel Nothing. That's The Misery Of The World.

The Crowd, Still Shouting, Gives Way Before Us. We Plough Our Way Through. Women Hold Their Aprons Over Their Faces And Go Stumbling Away. A Roar Of Fury Goes Up. A Wounded Man Is Being Carried Off.