Once at manoeuvres as the Prussian Crown Prince charged at the head
of his regiment, as sabres gleamed, plumes streamed, and hooves
thundered behind him, he is reported to have said to one that
galloped near him: “Ah, if only this were the real thing!”
One need not doubt that the report is true. So a young man might feel
as he led his regiment of cavalry, for the scene would fire the
blood; all those young men and fine uniforms and good horses, all
coming on behind, everything streaming that could float on the air,
everything jingling then which could ever make a sound, a bright sky
no doubt over the uniforms, a good fresh wind for men and horses to
gulp; and behind, the clinking and jingling, the long roll of hooves
thundering. Such a scene might well stir emotions to sigh for the
splendours of battle.
This is one side of war. Mutilation and death are another; misery,
cold and dirt; pain, and the intense loneliness of men left behind by
armies, with much to think of; no hope, and a day or two to live. But
we understand that glory covers that.
There is yet a third side.
I came to Albert when the fight was far from it: only at night you
saw any signs of war, when clouds flashed now and then and curious
rockets peered. Albert robbed of peace was deserted even by war.
I will not say that Albert was devastated or desolate, for these long
words have different interpretations and may easily be exaggerated. A
German agent might say to you, “Devastated is rather a strong word,
and desolate is a matter of opinion.” And so you might never know
what Albert is like.