Beside it lay the fragments of the French signboards, jocular advertisements of mud baths for trench fever, the hôtel this and the maison that. One of my companions pointed to a larger hut which he said our fellows had called the Hotel Cecil. The board was missing now. And no German signboard took its place. Their wit did not run in so richly innocent a channel.
The huts lay just off the race track in front of the ruined château, buried deep in the remnants of what had once been the beautiful park of a large country estate. These huts were now the German headquarters.
There was as much English as German talked there that day. Everywhere there was cooking going on, mostly in portable camp kitchens.
As we came to a halt one big fellow smoking a pipe observed nonchalantly: "You fellows are lucky. Our orders were to take no Canadian prisoners."
The man was so casual, so utterly matter-of-fact and there was about his remark so simple an air of directness and of finality that there was no escaping his sincerity, unduly interested though we were.
Another officer said "Engländer?"
The big fellow said "Kanadien." The other raised his brows and shoulders: "Uhh!"
WOUNDED CANADIANS RECEIVING FIRST AID IN A SUPPORT TRENCH AFTER AN ATTACK.[ToList]