horses and wheels - the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is beaten
down by the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this way in
thousands; they have not withdrawn by the country roads. This is
significant - it is the difference between retiring and retreating.

That group of horsemen is our commander, his staff, and escort. He is
facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with
both hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seems to
dignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers the glass
and says a few words to those about him. Two or three aides detach
themselves from the group and canter away into the woods, along the
lines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but we knew them:
"Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Those of us who
have been out of place resume our positions; the men resting at ease
straighten themselves, and the ranks are reformed without a command.
Some of us staff officers dismount and look at our saddle-girths; those
already on the ground remount.

Galloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes a young
officer on a snow-white horse. His saddle-blanket is scarlet. What a
fool! No one who has ever been in battle but remembers how naturally
every rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one but has
observed how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That such colors
are fashionable in military life must be accepted as the most
astonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would seem to
have been devised to increase the death-rate.

This young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all agleam
with bullion, a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave of
derisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But how