Ah, well! Destiny decrees that I shall now sleep amidst this oppressive smell of Germans, stretched out on the hay in which they have sheltered. Bah!… It's a dear price to pay for recovery of possession!
"Pannechon! What on earth's this?"
I seize the corner of a piece of cloth protruding from the straw. I pull it out and find it to be a greyish-green mantle with a red collar.
"Pannechon, pitch that outside!"
I stretch myself out, cover myself with my greatcoat and close my eyes. Hullo! What is this poking my side!
I thrust my hand into the hay and feel something hard with many corners. Patient investigation reveals a lacquered toilet-box with a mirror under the lid, a cheap and nasty gewgaw.
"Pannechon! Pitch that out too."
Sleep now. No, not yet! Just one more find—a tin of metal polish. Happily it is the last. I draw my greatcoat well up over my eyes and stretch myself out luxuriously. It is warm, it is good, and there is nothing at all to grumble at. Until to-morrow, and then the Boches!
Monday, September 14th.
It is raining, of course. The march beneath this sad and watery sky is going to be a detestable one. I resign myself in advance to a day of saturation.