Even in fiction there had been Ivanhoe and--and Alan Breck--and even
poor Rawdon Crawley at Waterloo--fighters all, even the poorest of
them, exalted in her eyes by their courage and the clash of arms.
But there wasn't any glory, any romance in this war. It was machine
guns and bombs and dirt, and cold and mud; and base hospitals, and men
screaming with awful wounds--and gas, and horrors, and nerve-shock
and--frightfulness. She had read it all in the papers and in the
magazines. And it had not meant anything to her, it had been just
words and phrases, and now it was more than words and phrases--.
When the hordes of people had swept into Washington, changing it from
its gracious calm into a seething and unsettling center of activities,
she had been borne along on the wings of enthusiasm and of high
endeavor. She had scolded women who would not work, she had scorned
mothers and wives who had sighed and sobbed because their men must go.
She had talked of patriotism!
Well, she wasn't patriotic. Derry would probably hate her when she
told him. But she was going to tell him. She wouldn't have him blown
to pieces or made blind or not come back at all.
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