As I stepped over one of the Germans an impulse made me lift him up
from the miserable ditch. Propped against the bank, his blond face
undisfigured, except by the mud which I wiped from his eyes and
mouth with my coat sleeve. He'd evidently been killed while
digging, for his tunic was knotted loosely about his shoulders. He
didn't look to be more than eighteen. Hoisting him a little higher,
I thought what a gentle face he had, and remembered that this was
the first time I'd ever touched one of our enemies with my hands.
Perhaps I had some dim sense of the futility which had put an end
to this good-looking youth. Anyhow I hadn't expected the Battle of
the Somme to be quite like this.
This first-hand account of the
face of battle is as beautifully written as it is historically
significant.
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