He looked homeward to a Yorkshire town and wondered what his missus would say if she saw him scratching himself like an ape, or lying with his head in the earth with shells bursting around him, or prodding Germans with a bayonet. “Oh,” said that five-foot hero, “there will be a lot of murder after this bloody war. What’s human life? What’s the value of one man’s throat? We’re trained up as murderers⁠—I don’t dislike it, mind you⁠—and after the war we shan’t get out of the habit of it. It’ll come nat’ral like!”

He was talking for my benefit, egged on to further audacities by a group of comrades who roared with laughter and said: “Go it, Bill! That’s the stuff!” Among these Lilliputians were fellows who sat aloof and sullen, or spoke of their adventure with its recent horror in their eyes. Some of them had big heads on small bodies, as though they suffered from water on the brain⁠ ⁠… Many of them were sent home afterward. General Haldane, as commander of the 6th Corps, paraded them, and poked his stick at the more wizened ones, the obviously unfit, the degenerates, and said at each prod, “You can go⁠ ⁠… You⁠ ⁠… You.⁠ ⁠…” The Bantam Division ceased to exist.