"And what of you here, has much damage been caused?"
The fact is that our village is being shelled almost daily, but the inhabitants scarcely pay attention to it. They have acquired somewhat of our mentality as soldiers, just as we have adopted something of their peasant nature. They know that in war one must be astonished at nothing.
No, this time no great damage has been done.
"A 150 shell exploded in Madame B.'s garden, over there on the right, and père Untel just missed being killed in his loft by a spent ball."
We remark gravely—
"All the same, things look bad."
We shake our heads just as old fogies do when the crops are likely to prove a failure.
One old dame asks anxiously—
"At all events, you'll not let them come back here?"
At this moment our comrades burst in, Jacquard at the head, haversack on back, pipe in mouth, muddy and all muffled up. His big face, with its shaggy beard, beams with goodwill. He brandishes his big rifle in his small arms and thunders forth—