I have seen things done by our own men in cold blood, the horror of which will haunt my memory until I die.

But of course, we hush it up when it happens to be our own people." He ceased speaking.

No one seemed inclined to break the silence.
They remained confused in her memory, these talks among the wounded men in the low, dimly lighted hut that had become her world.

At times it was but two men speaking to one another in whispers, at others every creaking bed would be drawn into the argument.
One topic that never lost its interest was: Who made wars?
Who hounded the people into them, and kept them there, tearing at one another's throats?
They never settled it.
"God knows I didn't want it, speaking personally," said a German prisoner one day, with a laugh.

"I had been working at a printing business sixteen hours a day for seven years.