have won the Victoria Cross, but in this war are commonplaces. They know
themselves re-born in soul, and are dimly aware that the world is
travailing toward new birth with them. They are still very human, men
who end their letters with a row of crosses which stand for kisses. They
are not dehumanised by war; the kindliness and tenderness of their
natures are unspoiled by all their daily traffic in horror. But they
have won their souls; and when the days of peace return these men will
take with them to the civilian life a tonic strength and nobleness which
will arrest and extirpate the decadence of society with the saving salt
of valour and of faith.

It may be said also that they do not hate their foe, although they hate
the things for which he fights. They are fighting a clean fight, with
men whose courage they respect. A German prisoner who comes into the
British camp is sure of good treatment. He is neither starved nor
insulted. His captors share with him cheerfully their rations and their
little luxuries. Sometimes a sullen brute will spit in the face of his
captor when he offers him a cigarette; he is always an officer, never a
private. And occasionally between these fighting hosts there are acts of
magnanimity which stand out illumined against the dark background of
death and suffering. One of the stories told me by my son illustrates
this. During one fierce engagement a British officer saw a German
officer impaled on the barbed wire, writhing in anguish. The fire was
dreadful, yet he still hung there unscathed. At length the British
officer could stand it no longer. He said quietly, "I can't bear to look
at that poor chap any longer." So he went out under the hail of shell,
released him, took him on his shoulders and carried him to the German
trench. The firing ceased. Both sides watched the act with wonder. Then
the Commander in the German trench came forward, took from his own bosom
the Iron Cross, and pinned it on the breast of the British officer. Such