I can shoot men coming at me on their feet, but not a mess of arms and legs." "I know," assents another; "when we charged the other day we had to advance over the Germans that fell the night before, and my men were slipping and stumbling all over the place.

The bodies didn't give them any foothold." "My sergeant yesterday," another relates, "turned to me and said: 'It isn't cricket.

There's no game in shooting into a target as big as that.
It's just murder.' I had to order him to continue firing." They tell of it without pose or emotion.

It is all in the day's work.

Most of them are young men of wealth, of ancient family, cleanly bred gentlemen of England, and as they nod and leave the restaurant we know that in three hours, wrapped in a greatcoat, each will be sleeping in the earth trenches, and that the next morning the shells will wake him..