November 26. An enemy plane, flying high above us this morning, was forced to make a sudden descent to a height of three hundred metres from earth. He was either touched by shrapnel or his mixture froze and he had to seek a new level. He passed very low over us. One of the Frenchmen attached to our Section fired at him with a rifle, but did not get him.
November 30. B—— was shelled and a few stray shots were sent into town and on the troop roads near us.
Under S—— the meals have been sumptuous repasts and we marvel at the change.
The writer, with two others of the Section, was crossing the Place —— after dark. As we passed the breach in the sandbag barricaded roads made by Rue ——, we were lighted up by the yellow glare coming from the shops next to the "Mairie." The sentry there on duty saw us. "Pass along, my children, and good luck—you are more devoted than we are," he cried to us.
I was startled by the voice out of the darkness and the surprising remarks. I glanced towards the sentry's post, but the light blinded me and I could not see him. From his voice I knew he was old—one of the aged Territorials.
"Oh, no!" I answered, for lack of anything better to say.
"Yes, you are. We all thank you. You are very devoted," he said.
"No, not that, but I thank you," I said; and we were swallowed up in the darkness. Then I was sorry one of us hadn't gone back to shake hands with the kind-hearted old fellow. It seemed to me that it was the spirit of France speaking through him, voicing as usual her appreciation for any well-intentioned aid, and that we should have replied a little more formally.