The section in formation, we roll off with the sun shining brightly on grimy cars and drivers, down the roads, passing ruin after ruin, with a burst of speed past a corner in view of the German trenches, and we again begin to see familiar ground. The green hill back of Erize, with shadows of the woods and the scars of the old trenches, appears in the distance, and my friend looks at me and chuckles.
Back in the same little town, parked in the same ruins with the same quietness, peace, and relaxation from the tenseness of the past days, which is so welcome this time, my friend and I walk into a little estaminet, pledge each other in glasses of French beer, and taking off our helmets for almost the first time in what seems an age, survey them and each other in placid contentment.
III
EN REPOS
A BATCH of mail was given out the morning after our return. When we moved, our address seemed to have been lost, for only a few letters, of no interest to any one, managed to find us. We have been too busy to miss them, and when they arrived in a bunch there were no complaints.
It is a wonderful thrill to get a letter from home, to read what those who mean all to one are doing, and to feel their personalities throbbing “between the lines.” We bridge for a brief moment the chasm of three thousand miles, and in revery gaze upon those persons, those places, and those things we have known. Our thoughts here are always in the past. We cannot think of the present, and we dare not think of the future, but there is always the past to live in,—the past of events and memories.
We settle down to the same dull monotony as before. For a few days this is bliss, but it soon becomes tiring again. All work here is contrast. When we are at work, we work intensively, taking less rest than seems physically possible, and when en repos we are plunged into the dullest monotony imaginable, with nothing to amuse or occupy us. This is true of every branch of active service.
The few air raids are rather an anticlimax after the days that have just passed, especially as nothing falls near enough to cause us any annoyance. At Bar-le-Duc the Boche playfully drops a dozen bombs into the German prison camp, much to every one’s amusement; a mile from us he destroys a camp of Bulgarian prisoners, and we wonder at his hard-headedness and laugh. But the next night we hear bombs crashing in the distance, and in the morning learn from some men in another section passing through that it was Vadlaincourt, where the Huns flew so near the ground that soldiers in the streets shot at them with rifles. At that height the aeroplanes could not mistake their targets, and they retired only when the hospital was a mass of flaming ruins. There are no smiles at this. Another night the purring motors reveal outlined high against the stars a fleet of Zeppelins, bound we know not where, but, we do know, on a mission of death to the innocent.
THE enemy aeroplane comes over us often. We have wondered why, but we now realize that while the Allies can get control of the air when they want it, to keep continual control would be too expensive in both men and machines. The anti-aircraft gun theoretically solves the problem. When an enemy machine appears, a battery of contre-avions is notified and essays the destruction of the adventurer.