"Lieutenant, Lieutenant! Do you see it?"
Every man peers into the sky in the direction indicated by one of them. I can see it now, a Taube, small, clear and distinct against a cloudless patch of sky, flying directly towards us. We know their silhouettes well by now, and though only the hum of the engine betrays an almost invisible speck, it is not long before we call out "Boche" or "French."
There is no question about this being Boche, and they must be firing upon it from Rosnes or Marats-la-Grande. It is quite out of our range; all we can do is to stand and watch. Nevertheless, every one of the men is positively trembling from eagerness to chance a shot. One of them, in fact, goes so far as to raise and aim his rifle, and then, half-turning towards me:
"May I, Lieutenant, may I?"
"Don't be a fool, Godard!" I reply rather severely. "What! Fire at it from here!"
In a hard school I have learnt to know the price of a cartridge, as well as a horror of waste!
Some man in an adjoining section suddenly cries triumphantly:
"They have got it!"
It is true the aeroplane has oscillated a little, a very little—but it is quite sufficient to send the men dancing with joy and shouting from sheer delight as if they were children. As for myself, I am only too certain that we have by no means "got it." It is still flying quite steadily. For an instant the whole fuselage is visible; then nothing but the tops of its wings are showing. In turning, it banks steeply and remains suspended for a moment before vanishing from sight behind the roof of our barn. For the men, that is sufficient. They are one and all convinced that it has fallen, that it has crashed to the earth, there away towards the north. I don't mind them believing it!
Forward! We march slowly across fields which are still heavy, but which are no longer puddles, so at least we are able to keep our feet dry. Ahead, the 8th begins to straggle, falls out of line and gets in our way. Each time we pass an orchard, men fall out, run to the trees, and fill their knapsacks with apples and quinces. On such occasions I growl out: