"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 huge, terrible mass that was
rushing on to overwhelm us. The waves tumbled and broke before
they reached us. Sometimes they fell flat. Sometimes they turned
and rushed the other way. It was wild, wild, like a change of the
wind and tide in a storm, everything torn and confused. Then perhaps
the word came to go over the top and at them. That was furious.
That was fighting with men, for sure--bayonet, revolver, rifle-butt,
knife, anything that would kill. Often I sickened at the blood and
the horror of it. But something inside of me shouted: 'Fight on!
It is for France. It is for "L'Alouette" thy farm; for thy wife,
thy little ones. Will you let them be ruined by those beasts of
Germans? What are they doing here on French soil? Brigands, butchers,
apaches! Drive them out; and if they will not go, kill them so they
can do no more shameful deeds. Fight on!' So I killed all I could."

The priest nodded his head grimly. "You were right, Pierre; your
voice spoke true. It was a dreadful duty that you were doing. The
Gospel tells us if we are smitten on one cheek we must turn the
other. But it does not tell us to turn the cheek of a little child,
of the woman we love, the country we belong to. No! that would
be disgraceful, wicked, un-Christian. It would be to betray the
innocent! Continue, my son."