He sighed, confused; then drew a cautious breath; This level journeying was no ride through death. “If I were dead,” he mused, “there’d be no thinking-- Only some plunging underworld of sinking, And hueless, shifting welter where I’d drown.” Then he remembered that his name was Brown. But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, Till in his heart thanksgiving leaped and burned. There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land, Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these he scanned, Large, friendly names that change not with the year, Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer. Hugh Pendexter, in Adventure Magazine, says “going west,” as used by the men overseas to mean death, is of peculiarly American origin. The Karok Indians of California believed the spirit of the good Karok went to the “happy western land.” The Cherokee myths picture the west as the “ghost country,” the twilight land where go the dead. The Shawnee tell of the boy who “traveled west” to find his sister in the spirit land. The Chippewa believes the spirit “followed a wide, beaten path toward the west.” The spirit world of the Fox Indians is at the setting of the sun. And so on, in the theology of many Indian nations we find the West as the storied abode of the great majority--who have passed over. * * * * * The phrase traces back to the Œdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles: Toward the Western shore Soul after soul is known to take her flight. Its later significance is tenderly sung by Eleanor Jewett in The Chicago Tribune: GOING WEST West to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes Straight and away into the sunset’s glow, Ribbed by the narrow barriers of Death-- Dark are the waters that beside it flow. The red flowers fade upon the fields of France, The soaring larks are fallen to their nest. The glare of battle soothes a little space.... As they go west.... SPRING F.M.H.D., F.A. IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE It’s Spring at home; I know the signs-- The buds are bursting on the vines, The birds speed high with happier wings, The heart of youth is glad, and sings. It’s Spring in France; I know the signs-- The massed reserves behind the lines; The heart of youth burgeons once more To manhood, and resurgent war! ON HIS OWN ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE OF THE VIGILANTES Permission to reproduce in this book “You see that young kid lying there Playing a game of solitaire? All shot to pieces in the air; By Heck, Sarge, he’s a wonder. The gamest kid I ever met; They’re probing him for bullets yet, But s--sh; here comes his nurse Yvette-- Kept _him_ from going under.