He was a fine-looking fellow, the prisoner. He had answered the call for king and country without delay. In the estaminet, after coming down from the salient for a machine-gun course, he had drunk more beer than was good for him, and the face of a pretty girl had bewitched him, stirring up desire. He wanted to kiss her lipsâ ââ ⌠There were no women in the Ypres salient. Nothing pretty or soft. It was hell up there, and this girl was a pretty witch, bringing back thoughts of the other sideâ âfor life, womanhood, love, caresses which were good for the souls and bodies of men. It was a starved life up there in the salientâ ââ ⌠Why shouldnât she give him her lips? Wasnât he fighting for France? Wasnât he a tall and proper lad? Curse the girl for being so sulky to an English soldier!â ââ ⌠And now, if those other women, those old hags, were to swear against him things he had never said, things he had never done, unless drink had made him forgetâ âby God! supposing drink had made him forget? He would be shot against a white wall. Shot dead, disgracefully, shamefully, by his own comrades! O Christ! and the little mother in a Sussex cottage!â ââ âŚ