Sinopsis

Once, on the Somme in the fall of 1916, when I had been over the top and
was being carried back somewhat disfigured but still in the ring, a cockney
stretcher bearer shot this question at me:
"Hi sye, Yank. Wot th' bloody 'ell are you in this bloomin' row for? Ayen't
there no trouble t' 'ome?"
And for the life of me I couldn't answer. After more than a year in the
British service I could not, on the spur of the moment, say exactly why I
was there.
To be perfectly frank with myself and with the reader I had no very lofty
motives when I took the King's shilling. When the great war broke out, I
was mildly sympathetic with England, and mighty sorry in an indefinite
way for a...