As he carried dispatches from
one end of the line to the other his disagreeably big eyes had absorbed
certain peculiarly inspiring details of civilised warfare. He had, at one
time, seen a bridge hastily constructed by _les allies_ over the Yser
River, the cadavers of the faithful and the enemy alike being thrown in
helter-skelter to make a much needed foundation for the timbers. This
little procedure had considerably outraged the Guard Champetre's sense of
decency. The Yser, said he, flowed perfectly red for a long time. "We
were all together: Belgians, French, English ... we Belgians did not see
any good reason for continuing the battle. But we continued. O indeed we
continued. Do you know why?"
I said that I was afraid I didn't.
"Because in front of us we had the German shells, behind, the French
machine guns, always the French machine guns, _mon vieux_."
"_Je ne comprends pas bien_" I said in confusion, recalling all the
highfalutin rigmarole which Americans believed--(little martyred Belgium
protected by the allies from the inroads of the aggressor, etc.)--"why
should the French put machine guns behind you?"
The Guard Champetre lifted his big empty eyes nervously. The vast hollows
in which they lived darkened.
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