“Go on, go on.... Gallop, for God’s sake. Corporals ... keep the distances.... Spread out the squads.... Get into the fields ... behind the trees.”
We reach the deep path like a whirlwind, while the bombardment rages over the village more than ever.
“Any accident? Anyone hit? Good. Assemble, and on the trot now.”
Ten minutes later we are in the shelter of Muguet wood, completely shut off from the view of the Boche artillery.
The wood deserves its name, for it scents the air a hundred yards about with the perfume of violets and lilies of the valley, which form a carpet between the trees and which our mules, entirely insensible to the subtle beauties of nature, begin to eat as though they were common fodder.
“Corporals ... look to your sections.... Is everyone here?... All the horses too?”
I cast a rapid glance over the parked beasts.
“Look, Liniers, where is Chocolate?”
And indeed where was Chocolate?
How did it happen that Chocolate wasn’t there?