His life story had been a sad one. Married when very young he had been a farmer on one of those little places so common and yet so unique in France. Things had not gone well with him and his farm had almost been forfeited. He had a family of children but his little twin boy and girl had been killed in a runaway and the shock had prostrated his wife. She had been an invalid ever since. Years had gone by and then when the Germans came, a shell had struck his home killing his wife in her bed and injuring his other boy. A few hours later the Germans entered the place, driving him out of his home, taking his farm. He had barely time to escape being captured, which would have meant service for Germany instead of for France. His heart had been saddened but he was glad to get away and go into the French Army and he had gone back to fight the Germans. He had gone through several battles without being injured but the gas caught him at Ypres. He lived sadly but died peacefully, and we were requested to be present at the last little service over what was earthly of him. They put him in a plain casket covered with a French flag and the procession started down toward the little church. At this time the Germans were bombing the district quite regularly. On reaching the graveyard we could see dozens of tombstones demolished, and one grave had thrown its occupant to the surface of the earth and it lay there a crumbling, rotting corpse--yet smiling, or at least so it seemed as the pearly white teeth were exposed to full view--smiling in derision, beyond the power of the German and his _Kultur_. Here Gaston was laid to rest. But war furnishes strange contradictions. It is a continuous panorama of lights and shadows; of beauties and hideous monstrosities. It furnishes some of the truest and bravest acts that history records and it produces some of the foulest deeds of crime. Experiences are so varied. Some evenings, while loafing about the headquarters sitting at little tables writing letters or talking peacefully there was nothing whatever to remind us of battle. Beautiful parks were in front of us, fountains and flowers, and all was quiet and serene. Then a call would come and within an hour or two we would be enveloped in the harsh stern facts of war. After witnessing the death of our comrade and seeing the shattered cemetery and the decaying corpse sticking out of the grave, all in one day, I felt a bit weird myself. A man's nervous constitution isn't made of iron and even after seeing many morbid spectacles, unless he has become hopelessly hardened, he will still be affected by tragic experiences and brutal scenes. I didn't rest any too well that night after those creepy sensations and the next day my nerves were rather shaky. The grim spectacle which was now to greet my eyes did not tend to quiet me either.