How courage has changed
with this modern war! The hero of olden times was of a special type,
who put on a fine pose and played up to the gallery because he
fought before admiring spectators. Now, apart from our night attacks,
always murderous, in which courage is not to be seen, because one
can hardly discern one's neighbour in the darkness, our valour
consists in a perfect stoicism. Just now I had a fellow killed before a
loophole. His comrades dragged him away, and with perfect quietude
replaced the man who is eternally out of action. Isn't that courage?
Isn't it courage to get the brains of one's comrade full in the face, and
then to stand on guard in the same place while suffering the extremes
of cold and dampness? ... On the night of the 13th I commanded a
section of corpses which a mitrailleuse had raked. I had the luck to
escape, and I shouted to these poor devils to make a last assault.
Then I saw what had happened and found myself with a broken rifle
and a uniform in rags and tatters. My commandant spoke to me that
night, and said: 'You had better change those clothes. You can put on
an adjutant's stripes.'"
One passage in this young Zouave's letter reveals the full misery of
the war to a Frenchman's spirit: "Our courage consists in a perfect
stoicism.
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