Judsi sang snatches of very doubtful songs, which made some of them laugh, while others, their more flighty sisters, blew us kisses.
Corporal Bouguet all at once started a marching song: the men joined in the chorus: the captain did not interfere, but the commanding officer came rushing up, a pot-bellied puppet, perched up on his big horse. Oh, come along! What was all this? Would they shut up? Would they never think of the war as something to be taken seriously?
This rating was upsetting. Another incident helped to damp their spirits. The distracted group we passed on the roadside ... a lieutenant, a corporal, the cyclist, and an auxiliary medical officer, surrounding a man stretched on the ground, a reservist who had just fallen out. I caught sight of a violet face and glassy eyes.
The rumour spread that it was a fit.
The name of the man was soon discovered; he belonged to the 21st company, and was named Gaspard Métairie, a coppersmith from F——. Dead? Oh, yes! lying there like a log! I listened to the men's remarks. Poor wretch! It made one's heart bleed. So soon. And so stupidly. If it had been some of the Bosches' work there would have been nothing to be said. But like that! Simply tired out! Fathers of families, just think! Carrying the full weight!... But what was the good of fussing? The war would not be over this evening!
"Oh, a lot they care wot becomes of us," Loriot said. "I'm done, I am!"
He retired on to the footpath.
"What's the matter now?" I shouted to him.
"No good. Can't go on!"
"What can't go on?"