When the conscript souls disembodied by this war meet, if they meet at all, how will they talk of this last madness? Perhaps one in each hundred will be able to say from his heart: “I was happy with a rifle or sword and some of you to be killed in front of me!” The remaining ninety-nine will say: “Like you I loved the sun, and a woman, and the good things of life; like you I meant well by others; I had no wish to kill any man; no wish to die. But I was told that it was necessary. I was told that, unless I killed as many of you as I could, my country would suffer. I don’t know whether in my heart I believed what I was told, but I did know that I should feel disgraced if I did not take rifle and sword and try to kill some of you; I knew, too, that unless I did, they would shoot me for a deserter. So I went. Nearly all the time that I was marching, or resting dead-tired, or lying in the trenches, I thought; ‘Shall I ever see home again? Let me see home again!’ But I knew that my first duty was to kill you, so that _you_ should never see home again. I did not _want_ to kill you, but I knew I had to. When I was under fire or tired or hungry, it is true I hated you so that I had only a savage wish to kill you. But when it was over I had an ache in my heart. We used to sing while marching, make jokes, enjoy the feel of our comrades’ shoulders touching our own, say to ourselves: ‘We’re fine fellows, serving our country, doing our duty!’ But still the ache went on underneath, very deep, as if one were asleep and could not come to the end of a bad dream. We seldom knew what our bullets were doing, but sometimes we came to fighting hand to hand. The first time, I remember, we had advanced through a wood under shell-fire, and were lying down at the edge. I had that ache all the time I was coming through the wood; it was fine weather, and the larches smelled sweet. But when I saw you charging down on us with the sun gleaming on your bayonets, it left me; I felt weak and queer down the backs of my legs, wondering which of you, yelling and running towards me, would plunge his steel into my stomach. Then my officer shouted; I fired once, twice, three times, and began to run forward. If I had not, I should have turned and fled. I did not feel savage, but I knew I must move every bit of me as quick as I could, and defend myself and stab. Then our supports came through the wood, and you were beaten. My bayonet was bloody. One or more of you I must have killed; I had been brave, we had won; I felt excited and yet sick. In the evening when I lay down my ache was worse than ever. All my life I had been taught that to kill a fellow-man was the worst thing man can do; it did not come natural to me to kill. It was having to risk my life so dear to me, _in order that I might kill_, that gave me that ache. If I had been risking it trying to save you, it would have been more natural; I should not have ached then!” § 8.