With the noise and the fatigue, the men say it is impossible to sleep
naturally, but they become so used to the firing and so weary that they
become oblivious of everything even when shells are falling within a
dozen yards of them. They stay in the trenches five days and then get
five days' rest. In talking to the men one feels the influence on them
of a curious sort of fatalism--they have been lucky so far and will come
through all right. One sees and feels everywhere the spirit of a great
game. The strain of football a thousand times magnified. The joy of
winning and boyish pleasure in getting ahead of the other fellows side
by side with the stronger passions of hatred and anger and the sight of
agony and death.

We talked to some of the little groups of men along the road who were
going back to their five days in the trenches. Of course all large units
are split up so as not to attract attention. They were all the same, all
sure of winning, and all bearded, muddy, and determined. I could not
help thinking of American football players at the end of the first half.
These men seemed all the same. I have no recollection of a single
individual. The "system" and its work has made a type not only of
clothes but of face. Their answers to the usual questions were all the
same, and one felt in talking to them that their opinions were
machine-made. Three points stood out--Germany is right and will win;
England is wrong and will knuckle under; we hate England because we are
alike in religion, custom, and opinion, and it is the war of kindred
races. Everywhere one met the arguments and stories of unfairness and
cruelty in fighting that have appeared in the English papers, but with
the names reversed. English soldiers had surrendered and then fired; had
shot from beneath a Red Cross flag or had killed prisoners. The stories
were simple and as hackneyed as most of those current in England.