I remarked upon the large number of women who wore long crepe veils, when he replied, “Yes; there are many in mourning for their dead. This little woman had already lost two sons in this war, and has just now got word that her only remaining son had been killed in battle.”
“She is not crying,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “Her loss is too deep for tears, and she is consoled by knowing that she has given them to France.”
“Express to her my sympathy,” I said, and Jot added, “Tell her that we are very sorry indeed for her.”
Then seeing that she had made some reply, we asked what she had said.
“She said: ‘God gave them to me, and I have given them to France.’”
While this conversation was going on, a man came up and stood apparently intent on watching the child and dog, and seeming to give no attention to our talk. Then touching Jot on the shoulder and drawing him out of hearing, he began to talk to him, as though trying to get his consent to some proposal, and then moved away with him towards the colonel’s quarters in a nearby château. He looked to me like the same man I had seen talking to Jot at home when the horse trader visited us. I wondered at this, for Jot was not given to making chance acquaintances. Then I saw them disappear in the large house where the colonel had his quarters.
After undergoing intensive training for several weeks, we were thought fit to receive more practical and strenuous duties and practice, by being moved to real war trenches within reach of the guns of the enemy.
We in the ranks knew that something was up. The Eagle (colonel) had summoned our Skipper (captain), a clerk had copied a list of names that had been given him, and now all the officers were in with the eagle. The supply sergeant was already nailing up boxes, and the mess sergeant had been heard to say:
“I can’t see how the oven can be moved again”—all of which were signs to any soldier that our regiment was about to “pull out.”