“It was difficult to get away from the touch of one’s environment and to overcome that unwelcome realization of the grim surroundings. One morning we had a weird reminder. When we opened the door of our hut, there, on the threshold, lay an unexploded ‘dud’ shell which had fallen in the night. Had it done what had been intended, we should have been very suddenly off somewhere among the stars. It made one think a little of solemn and strange things, and feel more than a little thankful to behold again the light of the sun. “People speak a good deal about the lust for blood and the fever-passion of battle. But our boys are not bloodthirsty. NOT THE HUN TYPE “A friend of mine, after a ‘scrap,’ saw a proof of this which almost cost him his life, as he had to resist the tendency to laugh, for he had been shot through the lungs. A big Scotsman, in a muddy kilt, and with fixed bayonet, had in his charge a German prisoner, who was very unwilling to get a move on. And Sandy shouted out to a companion on ahead, ‘Hey, Jock, he winna steer. What’ll I dae wi’ him?’ But Jock, busy driving his own man forward, just answered over his shoulder, ‘Bring him wi’ ye.’ Both of these men had the sweat of conflict not dry upon them. But they never for a moment thought of driving the bayonet into that reluctant foe, as the German would have done most readily. Of course, one does occasionally find the old grim warrior still, quite contented under hard circumstances, finding indeed the conditions a kind of real relief after the rust of peaceful days. “This same friend, going one night along the trenches, almost thigh-deep in mud, came upon a grizzled Irishman, O’Hara, cowering in the rain. ‘Isn’t this a damnable war, O’Hara?’ said he. ‘Thrue for you, sir,’ was the unexpected reply. ‘But, sure, isn’t it better than having no war at all?’ “A campaign like this brings one into touch with strange bedfellows. A man I know told me, ‘In one place, during the early terrible days, we crept into a cellar, and I lay down to try to sleep. But I soon found this to be impossible, for I became aware of somebody that kept running to and fro in the dark, driving all the rest away. I went out, and spoke to the doctor, whom I met. “Oh,” he replied, “that’s only our lunatic.” It was, indeed, a poor fellow who had gone mad in the retreat; and they could meanwhile do nothing but carry him along with them.’ Perhaps the weirdest of all the strange mixtures whom I met out at the front was a young fellow at a mechanical transport camp. His father was a Russian Jew, his mother was English, his grandfather Dutch, and he himself was born in London and brought up in Glasgow. In a world of such widely international disturbance you almost expected him to go off into effervescence, like a seidlitz powder. [Illustration: _Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._ Major Henry E. Bunch _42nd, Division, 168th Infantry, M. C._