Two other men walked slowly toward us with a queer, hobbling gait. Both of them were wounded in the legs, and had tied rags round their wounds tightly. They looked grave, almost sullen, staring at us as they passed, with brooding eyes.
“The German trench-mortars are very evil,” said the captain.
We poked about the ruins, raising our heads cautiously above sand-bags to look at the German lines cut into the lower slopes of Vimy, and thrust out by communication trenches to the edge of the village in which we walked. A boy officer came up out of a hole and saluted the captain, who stepped back and said, in an emotional way:
“Tiens! C'est toi, Edouard?”
“Oui, mon Capitaine.”
The boy had a fine, delicate, Latin face, with dark eyes and long, black eyelashes.
“You are a lieutenant, then? How does it go, Edouard?”
“It does not go,” answered the boy like that French sergeant in Ablain St.-Nazaire. “This is a bad place. I lose my men every day. There were three killed yesterday, and six wounded. To-day already there are two killed and ten wounded.”
Something broke in his voice.
“Ce n'est pas bon du tout, du tout!” (“It is not good at all, at all!”)