FOR THE COOK'S TOURISTS, IN FRONT OF ST. GEORGES.
August, 1915.
Boche torpedoes are decidedly disagreeable to listen to. The spot which seems fated to receive more than its share is the small fort north of St. Georges, 350 yards from the "Brick Bridge."
The Fusiliers have written on the sandbags: "Go easy—a dangerous bend!"
PETITES MARMITES,[14] ON THE ROAD TO LOMBAERTZYDE.
August, 1915.
Commandant de Jonquières invited my comrade, Guéneau, and myself, to luncheon at the Sub-commandant's Post North—a spot that had a villainous reputation. The house is riddled with bullet and shell-holes.
A room is still habitable and there is found, admirably prepared, the commandant's table, with white linen napkins properly placed at each plate like a metropolitan restaurant.
What a menu! The Marines dine well. The second course has been served when a loud explosion occurs in the vestibule: a 105 has burst in the house and the dining-room is filled with dust and smoke.
Commandant de Jonquières without rising from his chair cries out:
"Anybody hit, men?"