At the edge of the beetroot field, a few paces from the road, in the
white sand of Champagne, there is a burial-ground.
Branches of young beech encircle it, making a rustic barrier that shuts
out nothing, but allows the eyes and the winds to wander at will.
There is a porch like those of Norman gardens. Near the entrance four
pine-trees were planted, and these have died standing at their posts,
like soldiers.
It is a burial-ground of men.
In the villages, round the churches, or on the fair hill-sides, among
vines and flowers, there are ancient graveyards which the centuries
filled slowly, and where woman sleeps beside man, and the child beside
the grandfather.
But this burial-ground owes nothing to old age or sickness. It is the
burial-ground of young, strong men.
We may read their names on the hundreds of little crosses which repeat
daily in speechless unison: "There must be something more precious than
life, more necessary than life... since we are here."