vision has become a reality. When one has faced up to an ultimate
self-denial, giving becomes a habit. One becomes eager to be allowed
to give all--to keep none of life's small change. The fury of an
ideal enfevers us. We become fanatical to outdo our own best record
in self-surrender. Many of us, if we are alive when peace is declared,
will feel an uneasy reproach that perhaps we did not give enough.

This being the spirit of our soldiers, it is easy to understand their
contempt for those civilians who go on strike, prate of weariness,
scream their terror when a few Hun planes sail over London, devote
columns in their papers to pin-prick tragedies of food-shortage, and
cloud the growing generosity between England and America by cavilling
criticisms and mean reflections. Their contempt is not that of the
fighter for the man of peace; but the scorn of the man who is doing
his duty for the shirker.

A Tommy is reading a paper in a muddy trench. Suddenly he scowls,
laughs rather fiercely and calls to his pal, jerking his head as a
sign to him to hurry. "'Ere Bill, listen to wot this 'ere cry-baby
says. 'E thinks we're losin' the bloomin' war 'cause 'e didn't get an
egg for breakfast. Losin' the war! A lot 'e knows abart it. A blinkin'
lot 'e's done either to win or lose it. Yus, I don't think! Thank
Gawd, we've none of 'is sort up front."

To men who have gazed for months with the eyes of visionaries on
sudden death, it comes as a shock to discover that back there, where
life is so sweetly certain, fear still strides unabashed. They had
thought that fear was dead--stifled by heroism. They had believed that
personal littleness had given way before the magnanimity of martyrdom.