In a gust of laughter the mess broke up. Charles Fortune and the Colonel prepared for an orgy of Bach over the piano in the drawing-room of that house in Lille. Those who cared to listen might—or not, as they pleased. Brand and I went out into the streets, pitch-dark now, unlit by any glimmer of gas, and made our way to the convent where the girl Eileen O’Connor lodged. We passed a number of British soldiers in the Boulevard de la Liberté, wearing their steel hats and carrying their packs.
A group of them stopped under a doorway to light cigarettes. One of them spoke to his pals.
“They tell me there’s some bonny wenches in this town.”
“Ay,” said another, “an’ I could do wi’ some hugging in a cosy billet.”
“Cosy billet!” said the third, with a cockney voice. “Town or trenches, the poor bloody soldier gets it in the neck. Curse this pack! I’m fed up with the whole damn show. I want Peace.”
A hoarse laugh answered him.
“Peace! You don’t believe that fool’s talk in the papers, chum? It’s a hell of a long way to the Rhine, and you and I’ll be dead before we get there.”
They slouched off into the darkness, three points of light where their cigarettes glowed.
“Poor lads!” said Brand.