“Then,” said my friend, “what _is_ this war like? I ask you if it is this, or that; and you shake your head. But you will not satisfy me with negatives. I want to know the truth; what _is_ it like?” There was a long silence. “Express that silence; that is what we want to hear.” “The mask of glory,” I said, “has been stripped from the face of war.” “And we are fighting the better for that,” continued my friend. “You see that?” I exclaimed. “But of course you do. We know it, and you at home know it. And you want to know the truth?” “Of course,” was the reply. “I do not say that what you have read is not true,” said I; “but I do say that I have read nothing that gives a complete or proportioned picture. I have not yet found a perfect simile for this war, but the nearest I can think of is that of a pack of cards. Life in this war is a series of events so utterly different and disconnected, that the effect upon the actor in the midst of them is like receiving a hand of cards from an invisible dealer. There are four suits in the pack. Spades represent the dullness, mud, weariness, and sordidness. Clubs stand for another side, the humour, the cheerfulness, the jollity, and good-fellowship. In diamonds I see the glitter of excitement and adventure. Hearts are a tragic suit of agony, horror, and death. And to each man the invisible dealer gives a succession of cards; sometimes they seem all black; sometimes they are red and black alternately; and at times they come red, red, red; and at the end is the ace of hearts.” “I understand,” said my friend. “And now tell me your hand.” “It was a long hand,” I replied; “I think I had better try and write it down in a book. I have never written a book. I wonder how it would pan out? At first my hand was chiefly black with a sprinkling of diamonds; later I received more diamonds, but the hearts began to come as well; at last the hearts seemed to be squeezing out the clubs and diamonds. There were always plenty of spades.” There was another silence.