hard to leave it when the call to the colors came, two years ago. But I
was glad to go. My heart was high and strong for France. I was in the
Nth Infantry. We were in the center division under General Foch at the
battle of the Marne. _Fichtre_! but that was fierce fighting! And what
a general! He did not know how to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it'
victory.' Four times we went across that cursed Marsh of Saint-Gond.
The dried mud was trampled full of dead bodies. The trickling streams
of water ran red. Four times we were thrown back by the Boches. You
would have thought that was enough. But the general did not think so.
We went over again on the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The
Germans could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The roads where
we chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we
caught three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. _Bigre!_ what a fine
joke!"

Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital.
His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent forward
with shining eyes.

"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.
Continue, Pierre."

"Well, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the Aisne,
on the Ailette, everywhere. Always the same story--Germans rolling down
on us in flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on them was fire and
steel. The shells of the barrage swept us like hailstones. We waited,
waited in our trenches, till the green-gray mob was near enough. Then
the word came. _Sapristi!_ We let loose with mitrailleuse, rifle,
field-gun, everything that would throw death. It did not seem like
fighting with men. It was like trying to stop a monstrous thing, a