"
Ah! such thoughts and feelings cut deep. They would be unbearable but
for the saving salt of humour in which this whole great gathering of
men, so to speak, moves suspended, as though in an atmosphere. It is
everywhere. Coarse or refined, it is the universal protection, whether
from the minor discomforts or the more frightful risks of war. Volumes
could be filled, have already been filled, with it--volumes to which
your American soldier when he gets to France in his thousands will add
considerably--pages all his own! I take this touch in passing from a
recent letter:
"A sergeant in my company [writes a young officer] was the other day
buried by a shell. He was dug out with difficulty. As he lay, not
seriously injured, but sputtering and choking, against the wall of the
trench, his C.O. came by. 'Well, So-and-so, awfully sorry! Can I do
anything for you?' 'Sir,' said the sergeant with dignity, still
struggling out of the mud, '_I want a separate peace_!'"
And here is another incident that has just come across me. Whether it is
Humour or Pathos I do not know.
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