The battalion commandant’s post was next to ours on the ridge of the quarry.
Since the departure of Major L ... the captain adjutant-major, who was assuming the command in the interim, was quartered there. He was devoting himself to his ablutions in the open place in front of his dugout and at the same time telling Lieutenants C ... and D ..., his neighbors, an uproarious adventure of his last leave, when a man, tall and spare, with hollowed cheeks, sunburned skin, eyes deep and shining, modestly dressed,—a mechanic’s blue trousers, badly fitting and muddy boots, regulation trooper’s jacket, with no mark to show his rank,—came out of the sort of tunnel in which the La Vache trench ended, and stopped as if undecided, in front of our dugouts.
There was a mounted scout there who was occupying himself in cutting out a ring, and he asked him,
“The post of the major of the ... first battalion?”
Without stopping his work, the man indicated our group with his hand. He advanced shyly.
“The ... first battalion?”
“This is it,” said the adjutant-major, drawing his wet head from the canvas bucket in which he was plunging.
“I am Major C....”
“Oh, Major, I beg your pardon. I didn’t know....” mopping his face rapidly, and putting on his tunic which his orderly handed to him.
Without a word, the unperturbed figure, Major C ..., looked off into the distance, beyond material things, waited for him to finish his toilet, and then entered into the P. C. to take possession of his new post.