"Of course if the men don't mind chewing shrapnel!"
I advise my men to cook what meat they have, so that, if necessary, it can be eaten on the road as we go along.
It appears I was wise in my generation, for very shortly the "Fall in!" sounds, and we set off at once, evidently in the direction of Mouilly.
It is odd, but we cannot hear the faintest sound of fighting, not even the snap of a rifle or the boom of a gun. Yet over the hilltop there comes at a trot towards us a non-commissioned officer of mounted chasseurs, his head swathed in blood-stained bandages. Although rather pale, he sits erect in his saddle and smiles cheerfully.
"Hit?" someone calls out.
"Nothing to talk about. A shell splinter shaved my head."
Questions follow him along the road.
"Is it very unhealthy over there?"
"A little, my son. Just wait five minutes and you will have something to show as good as anything you will find at Mouilly!"
Down in the village Red Cross officers are fussing about. We meet two motor-cars travelling at full speed and raising a suffocating cloud of dust.