J. S. MACHAR
Assuredly we all think with horror of those days, weeks and months. If I were to have the choice of passing through them again or of having my leg cut off at the knee, I would say without hesitation: the leg. But this does not mean that I would move a finger or would cringe for the purpose of evading and escaping the danger if it were to arise again. No. That's what we are here for.
But assuredly not one of us regards this suffering as a merit. By chance it came upon us, as by chance it might have come upon others. And we did nothing more than the man who was surprised by a shower of rain and was without an umbrella,—we got wet through. The romanticism of "martyrdom" is now a thing of the past. It would be an extremely passive glory if anyone wished to glorify us on this account. There is only one thing we can do for ourselves: to try and forget and give the others a helping hand with their work.
But for all that, the members of our nation must not forget. Not for our sakes, but for theirs. It was they who were to have been hit, it was they who were aimed at. And they feel it and will not forget. We see this and believe.
For that reason, and for that reason alone, it is a good thing to relate what was experienced there by us, the nation's atoms, its units.
And that we, inexperienced as we were, nevertheless did not soil its shield and its honour there,—that too is not a merit, but an obvious duty towards ourselves.
No merit whatever then?
None whatever.
The age of romantic martyrdom is over. And woe to the nation which would glorify the bearers of such chance and passive merits.
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