The picturesqueness and romance of the war of picture books were
missing. To stand beside an English battery of thirty guns laying a
barrage as they fired their shells to a point ten miles distant, made
one feel as if one were an actual part of real warfare, and yet far
removed from it, until the battery was located from the enemy's
"sausage observation"; then the shells from the enemy fired a return
salvo, and the better part of valor was discretion a few miles farther
back.
Bok was standing talking to the commandant of one of the great French
army supply depots one morning. He was a man of forty; a colonel in
the regular French army. An erect, sturdy-looking man with white hair
and mustache, and who wore the single star of a subaltern on his
sleeve, came up, saluted, delivered a message, and then asked:
"Are there any more orders, sir?"
"No," was the reply.
He brought his heels together with a click, saluted again, and went
away.
The commandant turned to Bok with a peculiar smile on his face and
asked:
"Do you know who that man is?"
"No," was the reply.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290