“No, you’re joking. Ten o’clock. My word, it’s true. Oh, there, get up all of you. It’s ten o’clock. And that salaud of a Dedouche hasn’t lighted the fire. Come, come, hurry up, the lieutenant is coming!”
And as though this were the magic word, the lieutenant came in, leaving the door wide open behind him. It was time; they were almost suffocated.
The lieutenant was a large man, thin and well set up. His bearing indicated resolution. His brown hair was cut very short, according to the regulations. A close-cropped black moustache streaked his sunburned face. The general effect of his personality was that of a man cool and headstrong.
“Oh, he has the coolness of a Colonial,” the machine gunners repeated ad nauseam.
“Isn’t there any way to get you up?” exclaimed the lieutenant. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. It’s after ten o’clock.”
Then he saw me through the cloud of smoke and questioned me with a glance. The quartermaster broke in before I could reply,
“It’s the mounted intelligence officer, Lieutenant.”
“Oh, good!... Good morning.... Welcome.”
He extended a large, vigorous hand which confirmed the first impression of his personality—frankness and will.