September 26, 1918 
LAND 6s? WATER 
11 
Ammunition 
EARLY morning, or before morning. Stars bright 
and piercing confuse the still sleepy head with 
their infinity. The horses, cold and restless, 
jingle their bits constantly. The drivers, while 
they wait, stamp their feet or run up and down 
beside the team. The officer puts on his coat and helmet 
and quickly calls for hife horse. All mounted, the wagons 
move off. Eight wagons, a hundred shell on each. Eight 
wagons, and six horses each to draw them. 
Out of the lines the road is thick with half-frozen mud. 
Passage is quiet but for the scuddering of the drag washers 
loose on the axles. The wagons drop over into unexpected 
holes, and, turning on the main road, clatter monotonously 
as the tyres meet the pave. 
Up the line the guns can be seen and heard. 
Bright orange flashes signal on the crest. 
Here is war and death. 
Occasionally can be heard the surge of a shell coming over, 
culminating in furious intensity. Its violence gone, the echoes 
clatter from the hills till they are dissipated in distance. 
Early morning and a long journey, perhaps two hours. 
Every one too cold, too tired to speak or whistle : and \'et 
awake, awake to sit on a horse, to watch the dim road and 
keep the wagon moving. Awake to take more shell up to 
the guns. To send more death to others. They think, 
those men. Who knows what they think ? Perhaps they 
question. They say, "Why should I do this ? Why must I 
send death to others ? Why is love denied ? Love denied 
and hate killed. With either could one work with noble 
spirit. Hate dies quickly and love is killed. Soul is being 
killed. Spirit is dead and only remains thought, stumbling 
among the shadows of crumbled ideals. Stumbling over 
shells, tripping over men dead and cold. Stumbling over 
horses dying with agony in their nostrils, waiting for love to 
send the bullet home. 
Love dead and hope dead, hate dead. 
He rides ahead. Solitary, the leader of hate and death. 
He thinks of his men. What are they thinking of ? Love 
and hate ? How foolish ! Neither live here, only duty, 
cold and uninspired by glamour of glory. He thinks of her 
who wept bitter tears as he went away. Who said "I told 
myself I would not cry." He thinks of her in whom he 
could feel the great sobs choking, as she wept on his shoulder 
in the starlight night. So long ago ! Worlds ago, and yet 
the tear fresh on his hand now. He looks at it stupidly. 
Rain, rain from an inky muddled sky. Duty remains, and 
so he urges his horse to a faster step and glances round to 
see the teams dim in the morning. "Duty, duty," he says, 
kicking his laggard mind to present things. And still her 
voice creeps through the dark, and calls, and calling shakes 
his heart. And his spirit cries a cry of awful pain and love. 
Up the line still and nearer death. Faintly comes the 
stink of death and decay, fiercely comes the rush of death's 
messengers. Each one silent on his horse wonders what 
the other thinks. Wonders does he fear ? How much does 
he fear ? Wonders does he pray, who rides ahead ? 
Each wonders for what the other prays. It is for death 
or life ? Does he pray for courage to do his duty ? Why 
does he pray ? Love is dead and hate denied. 
Out with the ammunition.! Into the pits and empty, 
back to the wagon line as they can. Their duty done. 
The work goes on. Still more to do, lacking all save duty, 
for love is dead and hate denied. 
D. F. B. 
RETREAT ACCORDING TO PLAN 
By E Saobetti. 
