"Ouf! Then we think rightly! Glory! Is it the cross, the star, the
baton? No![*] He who wins those runs his horse up on a hill, out of shot
range, and watches through his glass how his troops surge up, wave on
wave, in the great sea of blood. It is misery that is glory--the misery
that toils with bleeding feet under burning suns without complaint; that
lies half-dead through the long night with but one care--to keep the
torn flag free from the conqueror's touch; that bears the rain of blows
in punishment, rather than break silence and buy release by betrayal
of a comrade's trust; that is beaten like the mule, and galled like the
horse, and starved like the camel, and housed like the dog, and yet does
the thing which is right, and the thing which is brave, despite all;
that suffers, and endures, and pours out his blood like water to the
thirsty sands, whose thirst is never stilled, and goes up in the morning
sun to the combat, as though death were paradise that the Arbicos dream;
knowing the while, that no paradise waits save the crash of the hoof
through the throbbing brain, or the roll of the gun-carriage over the
writhing limb. That is glory. The misery that is heroism because France
needs it, because a soldier's honor wills it. That is glory. It is here
to-day in the hospital as it never is in the Cour des Princes, where the
glittering host of the marshals gather!"
[*] Having received ardent reproaches from field officers
and commanders of divisions for the injustice done their
services by this sentence, I beg to assure them that the
sentiment is Cigarette's--not mine.
Pages:
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493