After having told a thousand details of our life in the trenches, some frightful enough, others sad, the moment had arrived to inject a note of gaiety into the sombre tableau which I had sketched for them—I drew forth Attila's telegram.
A cry escaped my partner. "Mlle. Y——, she was one of my company in the Théâtre de l'Œuvre!"
"And Attila?"
"He is the Director of the Théâtre des Galeries St. Hubert, in Brussels and well known in Paris!"
Attila's telegram has been safely delivered to Mlle. Y——, who, this time, will not complain of the remissness of the telegraph company, but perhaps, of her own indiscretion.
TARGET PRACTICE AT SARDINE CANS, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
March, 1915.
The Marines have found a way to divert German rifle fire from our loopholes in the trenches.
They have tied a number of empty sardine cans on the ends of sticks and fixed the latter firmly in the parapet, at which the boches shoot continually.
Since then "Fritz" spends his spare time in trying to knock them down; our losses have perceptibly diminished.