Such are the varying impressions which a battle makes upon various men.
It is no romance, but a grim reality of life and death. Far into the
night we lie awake and ask ourselves, what is the meaning of it all?

At first on the field of battle one thrills at the sound of mighty and
unearthly forces loosed, but in the din we suddenly realize that boys
are dying all about us, and that these guns bear swift death and
mangling to suffering men. Between us and the enemy are just a few
deep shell holes and a thin red line of flesh and blood, as a human
rampart, formed of men who hold their lives in their hands, ready to
make the great sacrifice. Behind us are the hidden guns and the
support trenches in the narrow strip of hard-won territory. Behind
these are the moving columns on the long roads, the pulsing arteries of
traffic, and the moving troop trains on the rails. Behind these in
turn are the plying ships, the millions of toiling workers, and the
suffering hearts of the nations in arms. Whole nations--yes, almost
the whole of humanity--are organized for war and dragged into deadly
conflict as by some devil's behest, instead of being organized for
brotherhood and the building of a better world. Oh, not for this
devil's work were men made. Surely mankind must come to its own in
these birth pangs of a new era. Never, never again must a whole
humanity of the free-born sons of God be dragged into the hell of war
to sate the pride or pomp of kings, or to glut the ambition of scheming
secret groups who have taught men that they are created as obedient
slaves.

Far behind us, marking the slow advance up this ridge of death, are the
sheltered cemeteries of white crosses that tell the price that has
already been paid. There are five thousand crowded graves in yonder
acre alone. Great is the price, awful in its solid weight of agony.