“Yes,” agreed Seeger, “this is the life. The only life worth living is when you are face to face with death—midway between this world and the next.” For one week the Legion had marched each night fifteen kilometers to the front, dug trenches and returned to camp in the early morning. Again that night we went out, and daylight, September 25, found us established in a badly demolished trench from which we emerged at the time set for the attack, 9:15. The four hours between daylight and the attack were passed under a furious bombardment. Many were killed or wounded while we waited to go over the top. The French had, unknown to the Germans, brought up their 75 cannon and dug them down in another trench 25 yards behind us. The din was terrific. Smoke screens and gas shells nearly blinded us. Men were uneasy and dodged. The captain caught a fellow flopping. “Here, you young whelp, don’t you know that noise comes from our own guns behind?” Pera, a Tunis Jew, tore open his first aid bandage and we filled our ears with cotton to deaden the noise. The attack was carried out by seven long lines of soldiers advancing two yards apart, each line about 100 yards behind the other. The Colonials and Moroccans had the first line, the Legion the second. Owing to the Germans’ concentrated fire on our trenches and on the outlets, each man did not get out two yards from the next. Frequently the other man was dead or wounded. But the objective was the Ferme Navarin, and at 10:30 it was in our possession. A soldier’s life, while of some concern to himself, to an officer is but a means to an end. It is offered, or given, to get results. The best officer obtains the most results with the least loss. Some give wrong orders and sacrifice their men. Others seem to grasp every opening for advancement and gain the objective with very little loss. In the first run to the outlet the slaughter was terrible. Stretcher bearers carried a continuous stream of wounded with bloody bandages on, silent, motionless, pale-faced, dirtily-clothed men, whose muddy shoes extended over the edge of the stretchers. Nearer the front line, the worse the carnage. Dead were lying so thick soldiers walked on upturned faces grazed by hob-nailed shoes. Side trenches were filled with wounded, waiting transportation. Some, injured in the hand, held it up watching the blood flow; others, hurt in the leg, were dragging that member along. Holding onto their stomachs were those whose blood was running down over their shoes. At one corner leaning against two corpses lay a young soldier, smooth shaven, curly-hair, mustache trimmed, his face settling into the soft, creamy whiteness of death, a smile on his lips. My mind flashed over to Madam Tussaud’s wax figure exhibition in London.