We make wagers as to where the next shell will fall.
That one—looking in the air to see the snorting projectile pass—will be for the station.
Pan! The red roof crumbles in. At that moment a train enters the station. The Germans see it; a projectile falls twenty yards in front of the engine; another, ten yards in front; a third, well aimed, but a little short. The engine-driver does not lose his head; he reverses the engine. Four consecutive explosions on the very spot the locomotive has just left.
Applause and shrieks of joy.
Both train and station seem very much like Nuremberg toys. One must reflect if emotion is to be genuine.
The sun's rays speedily dry our coats on our backs. Some of the men sleep, whilst the artillery duel redoubles in intensity.
Varlet has gone into the village to make lunch. He returns, furious, with dishevelled hair and empty hands.
"Well! Where's lunch?"
Varlet vociferates—