We have read a great deal in this little book about the courage shown by men in the heat of the fight. But it did not take the excitement of attack or defence to rouse and sustain the courage of our men. Nor were they less brave and cheerful in weakness and in pain than they were on the field of battle. Read the words of a doctor9 at the front:—

“We speak of brave men. Yes, these men are brave! If the people at home could see the conditions under which our fellows fight, and how they die, I swear that every head would uncover to the colours of any regiment bearing the name of a battle, because that name had been won through the blood of real heroes.

“For example, some colours will have ‘Marne’ upon them. I know what deeds were done, what lives were given, what wounds were received to have that one name so inscribed. Believe me, the Victoria Cross is won over and over again in a single day.

“They are brave. What if you were to see how the wounded act after the excitement of a battle? They suffer their wounds, great and small, without a murmur; they get their wounds dressed and give consent to have their limbs amputated just as if they were going to have their hair cut.

“They are gloriously brave. Men who have been in the thick of the fight all day, seen their chums wounded and killed, their own lives not worth a second’s insurance, still cook their food and go off to sleep, and, most wonderful of all, go back to the thick of it next day.

“It is Sunday. In the evening we had a service in a barn. A great crowd of the officers and men collected. The scene was very impressive, with the place only lit with camp candles, the soldiers rough and dirty with the work of war, some of them just returned from the trenches and others going there the same night—some who in all probability would be dead before another night came. The men sang heartily, but when the prayer for dear ones at home was being offered there were few dry eyes among those brave men who faced death daily.”

The war made even little children careless of death. Here is a pretty little story from Italy. An Alpino came to a ruined house where three little girls were plucking roses while shells moaned and fizzed over their heads. They offered him some of their flowers, and he suggested they should go and stay with his little daughter in Italy out of harm’s way. “Oh, no,” they said, “thank you very much, but papa is fighting near here—and besides, the roses would all die.”