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So it was at Hooge on that day of August. I talked with these men,
touched hands with them while the mud and blood of the business still
fouled them. Even now, in remembrance, I wonder how men could go
through such hours without having on their faces more traces of their
hell, though some of them were still shaking with a kind of ague.


X

Here and there on the roadsides behind the lines queer sacks hung from
wooden poles. They had round, red disks painted on them, and looked
like the trunks of human bodies after Red Indians had been doing
decorative work with their enemy's slain. At Flixecourt, near Amiens,
I passed one on a Sunday when bells were ringing for high mass and a
crowd of young soldiers were trooping into the field with fixed
bayonets.
A friend of mine--an ironical fellow--nudged me, and said, "Sunday-
school for young Christians!" and made a hideous face, very comical.
It was a bayonet-school of instruction, and "O. C. Bayonets"--Col.
Ronald Campbell--was giving a little demonstration.


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