bravery.

There is something about the rough-and-tumble of battle that lifts one
above one's self. One's legs and arms are not the same listless limbs
that were crying for rest only a short hour ago. One is envigoured; the
excitement stimulates. One feels great, magnanimous, superb. The
difficulty lies not in forcing oneself to be brave, but in curbing
ridiculous impulses, and in forcing the brain to work slowly and
smoothly. The smallest natures rise to great heights. An ordinary
self-centred creature performs acts of dazzling generosity towards
fellows he does not even know--with everything to lose and nothing to
gain. He will rescue a wounded man under heavy fire, to whom an hour
previously he would have refused to lend sixpence.

Why is it?

If the enemy were a roaring brazen beast, such as the knights of the
fairy tales used to fight, one could understand it. But he is not. You
cannot even see him. Three-quarters of a mile ahead there is a dark
brown line, and that is all. Whence comes the love of battle? Is it
roused by the little messengers of death that whizz invisibly by? No one
can say; the whole feeling is most probably the result of imagination
and desire to do great things.

On they swept. The leading Platoon was now covering the ground at such a
pace that it was impossible to catch up with them. As the ground was
open the whole line could be seen sweeping forward to engulf the enemy.
The long dotted lines of brown advanced steadily and inexorably. Line
upon line of them breasted the crest, and followed in the wake of the
leading wave. It was scarcely a spectacular sight, yet it was the