It was already nearly winter when I went to the front.
At first, in spite of the sensation of the bombardment, I was disappointed with everything.
Formerly I had often wondered why people so seldom were able to live for an ideal.
Now I saw that many, yes, all men, are capable of dying for an ideal,
provided that such an ideal is not personal, not chosen of their own free will.
For them it had to be an ideal accepted by and common to a great number. But with time I saw that I had underestimated men.
Although service and a common danger renders them uniform, I saw many, living and dying, approach fate magnificently.
Not only in an attack, but the whole time, many, very many of them had a fixed, far-away look, rather like that of a person possessed,
a look which indicates entire ignorance of the end pursued, and a complete surrender of self to the unknown.
No matter what they might believe and think they were ready, they were there in case of need, out of them would the future be formed.
And, however strongly the world’s attention appeared to be focused on war and heroic deeds, on honor and other old ideals,
however distantly and unnaturally sang the voices of humanity—all this was merely the surface,
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