"Because then it would only be good for the duration of the war."
THE PASSWORD, DIEUE-SUR-MEUSE.
November, 1915.
It is night—I return in a covered automobile with Colonel d'Auriac. At the road which crosses that to St. Mihiel, a sentinel waves his lantern—the machine stops.
"The password?"
"Marne!"
"That's not it!"
"What! That's not it? Call the head of the post," said the colonel nervously.
In a few moments that seemed long enough to us, the poilu brought the head of the post, who dragged his feet as if half asleep.
"The password?"
"Marne!"