I left Poulet and Chandonnay this particular morning at the moment they themselves went to have dinner with their comrades a short distance away. I had given them leave until after breakfast because I wanted to make some changes in the arrangement of my precious storehouse.
It was one of those little Flemish brick homes where the roof and two stories had been shattered by bombardment, nevertheless in much better condition than the neighboring ones.
I, also, went to dinner on the other side of the locks, where the Marines held the sector.
The bombardment had slackened somewhat, but from time to time 420's came over, and, exploding, shook everything.
At the time I had fixed for the return of my poilus to the cellar of the lock-keeper's home, I was not a little surprised to see them coming to meet me.
"How is it," I said, "that you are not at your post where you should be, or in the dugout in safety?"
"Our post," they replied, stupefied, "our post—what post, lieutenant?"
"The lock-keeper's house."
"It's gone!"