The sun is already high when we start back along the road.
A Poilu [See page 56]
The lieutenant loves a quick pace and a marching song. So at the top of his lungs he begins one of his lively songs full of expressions that would have startled a growler of the Empire through their shamelessness, but which do not disturb the modesty of a Colonial at all, supposing that a Colonial ever had any.
And the section leaders take up the refrain in chorus.
Some steps behind, Sub-Lieutenant Delpos stops to light his fine Egyptian cigarette. In spite of the early hour and the uncertain weather, and with no thought of the disagreeable march through the sticky mud of the communication trench, he is dressed with the greatest care. His bright tan leggings are elegantly curved; his furred gloves are of the finest quality, and the pocket of his jacket, cut in the latest English style, shows a fine cambric handkerchief, subtly scented. And arm in arm we follow the quick pace of our comrades, while he continues the interrupted story of his latest exploit.
“Yes, mon cher, picture to yourself an exquisite blonde. I met her on the Rue des Saints-Pères....”