For the first time since the declaration of War, Winterbourne felt almost happy. These men were men. There was something intensely masculine about them, something very pure and immensely friendly and stimulating. They had been where no woman and no half-man had ever been, could endure to be. There was something timeless and remote about them as if (so Winterbourne thought) they had been Roman legionaries or the men of Austerlitz or even the invaders of the Empire. They looked barbaric, but not brutal; determined, but not cruel. Under their grotesque wrappings their bodies looked lean and hard and tireless. They were Men. With a start Winterbourne realized that in two or three months, if he were not hit, he would be one of them, indistinguishable from them, whereas now in the ridiculous jackanapes get-up of the peace-time soldier he felt humiliated and ashamed beside them. “By God!” he said to himself, “you’re men, not boudoir rabbits and lounge lizards. I don’t care a damn what your cause is—it’s almost certainly a foully rotten one. But I do know you’re the first real men I’ve looked upon. I swear you’re better than the women and the half-men, and by God, I swear I’ll die with you rather than live in a world without you.” * * * * * Winterbourne moved a short distance away from the draft and watched a small group of leave men. One, a Scotchman in the uniform of an English line regiment, was still wearing his full equipment. He was leaning on his rifle, talking to two other infantrymen, who were sitting on their packs. One of them, a Corporal with scandalously untrimmed hair and a dirty sheepskin jacket, was lighting a pipe. “An’ wha’ y’ think?” said the Scot in his sharp-clipped speech, “when ah got hame, they wan’ed me ta gae and tak’ tea wi’ th’ Meenister and then gie a speech at a Bazaar for Warr Worrkers.” “Ah!” said the Corporal, “did you tell ’em—puff—all about the wicked Huns—puff—and say that what we want in the line is more tiled bath-rooms and girls and not so many woollen mufflers and whizz-bangs?” “Ah did not; ah said ‘gie me over that bottle o’ whiskey, wumman, and hauld y’ whist.’” “What Division are you, Jock?” said the other man. “Thirrty-thirrd. We’ve bin spendin’ a pleasant summer on th’ Somme, and we’re now winterrin’ at the Health-resorrts o’ Ypres.” “We’re forty-first Division. Just on your left in the Salient. We came up there a month ago from Bullycourt.” “Bullycourt’s a verry guid place to get away from....”