(Censored)
This morning the men keep constantly on the move, trotting up and down the road, hands in their pockets, tramping and stamping to restore the circulation to their frozen feet. Their moving silhouettes can be seen at a great distance, but I do not interfere. It is very cold to-day and, besides, the Boches were thrust back several miles yesterday evening; between us and them lie dense woods which cut off their view.
There is a certain gaiety and verve animating all this brisk movement in the fresh morning air.
Very soon the men gather in circles on the grass and loud bursts of laughter interrupt their conversation. Naturally, the incidents of the last fight are canvassed and, as always, when danger is no longer close at hand, made to appear a mere joke.
Yesterday's bullets were erratic and achieved fantastic results. A corporal exhibits his pocketbook split right across, the papers in which have been cut in two.
"When that bullet gently tapped me," he says, "I firmly believed I was done. My heart actually ceased to beat. As I found myself still standing upright, however, I began to examine myself. I found the hole with the pocket-book behind it. Là! Là! What an achievement! Quite a beautiful bit of work. But the one who got it worst, was my old woman—cut clean in two!"
From the mass of papers he draws forth a woman's photograph, displaying a long tear. Then laughs and loud-voiced pleasantries ring out:
"You are a nice sort of chap, my buck! To let your old woman take the knocks to save your own skin!"
"My boy, who can blame him? She's no further use to him!"
"Tell me, then! Seeing that it was a Boche that made the mess, doesn't it make you hot?"