The adjutant was just crossing the street and he stopped at the door to estimate the damage.
“They missed the steeple again,” he said, with a disdainful shrug for the Boche artillery.
And Morin, the drummer, by way of commentary, without interrupting his reading:
“Close the door. If they send any more shells, that will make a draft.”
CHAPTER III
THE ECHELON
From Proyart to Morcourt is five miles by a crossroad which in its many curves and windings cuts across trenches, communication trenches and barbed wire.
The snow had stopped, but it still covered the ground, the trees and the farms with its regular white covering. The communication trenches showed black on this vast screen.
The crows circled in innumerable flights and sought in vain for the carrion which had been so abundant for months and which, to-day, was buried.