Two of them lingered after the colonel had gone. They drank more whisky.
“We must be going,” they said, but did not go.
The delicate-looking man could not hide the trouble in his eyes.
“I sha'n't be killed this time,” he said to a friend of mine. “I shall be badly wounded.”
The hard man, who loved flowers, drank his fourth glass of whisky.
“It's going to be damned uncomfortable,” he said. “I wish the filthy thing were over. Our generals will probably arrange some glorious little massacres. I know 'em!... Well, good night, all.”
They went out into the darkness of the village lane. Battalions were already on the move, in the night. Their steady tramp of feet beat on the hard road. Their dark figures looked like an army of ghosts. Sparks were spluttering out of the funnels of army cookers. A British soldier in full field kit was kissing a woman in the shadow-world of an estaminet. I passed close to them, almost touching them before I was aware of their presence.
“Bonne chance!” said the woman. “Quand to reviens—”
“One more kiss, lassie,” said the man.
“Mans comme to es gourmand, toi!”