Nobody smiles. Nobody sings. . . . The whistle blows. The officer holds his girl’s cheek to his. The soldier kisses his girl on the mouth. Just once more! Nobody watches anyone else. No one pretends. No one is pretending anything. “Kill a Boche for me, darling.” Didn’t they say that in the last war? No one says a word about Boche or killing. Not a word. Not a flag. Not a salute . . . not an “au revoir.” They pull apart and the men crowd into the cars . . . They look through open windows—a thousand different faces, not one like another, not one common expression, not one replaceable face . . .
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