A crucifix, with the figure of the Savior, was in the most conspicuous place in that burial ground; it was easily twenty feet high; yet it remained untouched throughout the whole bombardment. In not one single instance (and I think all returned soldiers will say the same) have I seen the figure of the Savior anything but intact, no matter how destructive the shelling has been. The cross itself has been smashed to dust, but the figure has never been hit. This is very remarkable, but a fact. --------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: INSTRUMENTS OF WAR AND PEACE WORKING SIDE BY SIDE.] The reaping machine is harvesting the grain. The monster gun is also reaping--but the harvest is death. A German shell is exploding on the right. --------------------------------------------------------------------- The next afternoon at four-thirty came the order, "Fall in," and we knew we were booked now for the real thing. Rifles were examined, ammunition inspected, and as night was falling we swung through the town and across the bridge, temporarily erected by the engineers, the Germans having destroyed the original one in their retreat. The townspeople turned out _en masse_ apparently none the worse for a few shells that had been flying among them a few hours before. _Bon chance_ was shouted from all sides, to which we replied in English. Being very much on the short side and all the more conspicuous by the majority of the boys being very much on the tall side, I came in for much chaff from the people who christened me _le picannin_. It became a great joke among my chums and I had to submit to a lot of chaff. At last we came to the hospital and the order was passed down the line for silence. Again splitting into small sections we trudged silently along, now and again stumbling into the shell craters. Once we were placed at the side of the road to let the casualties go by. Nothing is so weird as to meet those stretcher bearers on a quiet night at the back of the line. Not a word is spoken, the bearers stepping as one man. Up in the air goes a flare and the faces of everyone take on a ghastly green tint, accentuating the expression of suffering. It is a wonderful experience, and only a soldier can realize the heroic stoicism of a wounded comrade. Racked with pain they may be, but with the inevitable smoke between their lips, they will grin at you as they pass.