One of my poilus, his helmet resting on his ears, strikes a blow with ardor, although he appears to be in a very bad humor, I assure you—There is no doubt about it for a single instant, seeing him sink the stakes anchoring the wire entanglement with heavy blows of the hammer as if he wanted to smash them——
A 105 arrived, breaking a few yards from him, a large fragment skidded on the ground, hitting him on the head——
I see the man make a bound and fall flat on the ground——
With his two hands he tears off his blue helmet, completely crushed, and, contemplating it with bitterness, cries out:
"Damn!—with that, I'll never be sent to the rear!"
THE POETIC POILU.
March, 1916.
In a dirty sector on a beautiful, sunshiny day——
"Ah! there you are, mon gros, why are you all dressed up?"
"I leave on vacation, lieutenant."