afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by their
gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The
youth, on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with
one of them. He was a slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully
between his shoes and possessed a great fund of bland and
infantile assurance. The youth liked him personally.

"Yank," the other had informed him, "yer a right dum good feller."
This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him
temporarily regret war.

Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray,
bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses
and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of
fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns. Others
spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent
powders. "They'll charge through hell's fire an' brimstone t'
git a holt on a haversack, an' sech stomachs ain't a'lastin'
long," he was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the
red, live bones sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.

Still, he could not put a whole faith in veteran's tales, for
recruits were their prey. They talked much of smoke, fire,
and blood, but he could not tell how much might be lies.
They persistently yelled "Fresh fish!" at him, and were
in no wise to be trusted.

However, he perceived now that it did not greatly matter what
kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they fought,
which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious problem.