And we hurry past forests and rivers, past meadows whose extent I cannot see, past hills that fade away into the blue of distance, past an immeasurably rich country that stands golden in its ears of corn. And over it all shines the sun of one's native land. And I would fain spread out my arms. Yes, our native land is fair and great, and worthy that a man should shed his blood for it. CHAPTER VI LIKE THE PROMISE OF MAY We have turned off the main road, and have to march over a field of stubble. A battle was fought here yesterday, for the field is sown with dead bodies. They have picked up the wounded. But as yet they have had no time to bury those who died where they fell. The first dead man we saw struck us dumb. At first we hardly realized what it meant--this lifeless new uniform spread out there--from the way he was lying you could hardly believe he was really dead. It gave you a prickly feeling on the tongue. It seemed as if you were on manoeuvres, and the fellow lying there in a ditch had got a touch of the sun. A rough soldierly jest, a cheery shout was all that was wanted to raise him to his ramshackle legs. "Hullo, you! Got a head? Keep a stiff neck." But the words froze in our throat, for an icy breath was wafted to us from the dead man, and a chill hand clutched at our terror-stricken hearts. So that was Death! We knew all about it now. That is what it looks like, and we turned our heads back and shuddered. But then there came more and more of them. And by this time we have become accustomed to them. Strange! I gaze at these silent faces that seem to laugh at us, at these wounds that seem to mouth at us fantastically, as if they had I nothing to do with me. It strikes me all as so remote, so indifferent. As if all these dead bodies were lying in glass cases, as if I were in an anatomical museum, and were staring with dispassionately curious eyes at some scientific exhibits. Sometimes no wounds at all are visible. The bullets have passed through the uniforms somewhere, and have gone clean through the softer parts of the bodies. They have grown rigid in death in grotesque postures as if Death had been trying to pose figures here. There are certain schemes of Death that are always recurring. Hands out-stretched--fingers clawing the grass--fallen forward on to the face--that fellow over there lying on his back is holding his hand pressed tight against his abdomen, as if he were trying to staunch the wound. In the country I was once watching them killing sheep. There a beast lay, and was waiting for the butcher, and as the short knife cut through its windpipe and jugular vein, and the blood leaped hot from its neck, I could see nothing but the big eye, how it enlarged in its head to a fearsome stare, until at last it turned to a dull glass.