"Yes and no. That is the
strange thing. It made me thankful--that goes without saying. But
it did not make me any stronger in my heart. Perhaps it was too
sweet. I thought too much of it. I could not bear to think of
anything else. The idea of the war was hateful, horrible, disgusting.
The noise and the dirt of it, the mud in the autumn and the bitter
cold in the winter, the rats and the lice in the dugouts, And then
the fury of the charge, and the everlasting killing, killing, or
being killed! The danger had seemed little or nothing to me when
I was there. But at a distance it was frightful, unendurable. I
knew that I could never stand up to it again. Besides, already I
had done my share--enough for two or three men. Why must I go back
into that hell? It was not fair. Life was too dear to be risking
it all the time. I could not endure it. France? France? Of course
I love France. But my farm and my life with Josephine and the
children mean more to me. The thing that made me a good soldier is
broken inside me. It is beyond mending.
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