Any number of what we would call mere children have been so imbued with the spirit of sacrifice, that they have joined the army long before their Class was called. Madame de Martel's grandson, the sons of Monsieur Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to mention but a few in thousands, all fell on the Field of Honour before attaining their eighteenth year. And each family will tell you the same pathetic tale: "We tried to interest him in his work--we provided all kinds of amusements; did everything to keep him here; all to no avail. There was just one thought uppermost in his mind--Enlist--Serve. He was all we had!" Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother he would not go until he had won his baccalaureate, and my friend lived in the hope that all would be over by the time the "baby" had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown to his parents, worked nights, skipped a year, passed his examination, and left for the front, aged seventeen years and three months! He had kept his word. What could they do? In another household--my friends the G's., where two elder sons have already been killed, there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth of sixteen. With the news of his brothers' death the flame of vengeance kindled, and then began a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, and medical supervision, that would have made many a stouter heart quail. Every week the family is present when the chest measure is taken. "Just one more centimetre, and you'll be fit!" exclaims the enthusiastic father, while on the lashes of the smiling mother form two bright tears which trickle unheeded down her cheeks. There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm among all these youths; an almost sacred fire burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered but passionate. They are so glad, so proud to go. They know but one fear--that of arriving too late. "We don't want to belong to the Class that didn't fight." And with it all they are so childlike and so simple--these heroes. One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon Marche, I noticed a soldier in an obscure corner, who, his back turned to us, was finishing with vigorous appetite, a plate of fancy cakes and pastry. (There was still pastry in those days--1917.) "Good!" thought I. "I'm glad to see some one who loves cakes enjoying himself!" The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes. Then presently he called the attendant. She leaned over, listened to his whispered order, smiled and disappeared. A moment later she returned bearing a second well laden dish. It was not long before these cakes too had gone the way of their predecessors. I lingered a while anxious to see the face of this robust sweet tooth, whose appetite had so delighted me.