“Yes, one Frenchman.”
“Oh that’s nothing!” (Ça ne fait rien.) They strolled away.
The friendly interpreter came in and told us that they were about to hold the poilu’s funeral.
A troop-train pulled in. It was loaded with soldiers from my own regiment, the Second Battalion. The chocolate was ready, smelt delicious.
“You can’t serve it,” they told us. “On account of last night’s shelling, the troops won’t be allowed to stop until they’re well beyond the town.”
“Isn’t there some way we can manage?” we teased.
“No, they’ve got our range.”
“Well at least we can say hello to them!”
We went down to the tracks where the men were spilling out of the box cars. They were gathering up their equipment and forming in companies in double time. One red-in-the-face sergeant was furiously demanding who in blazes had stolen his revolver on him; it was evident that he found the presence of ladies sadly hampering to his flow of language. Three companies marched off. The last to go was H Company, the company that had been billeted on the same street with us at Goncourt. We waved and they smiled back at us. They marched down the road, disappeared over the brow of the hill.
We stood chatting with two boys who were on a billeting detail.