The hint is taken. It is singular to reflect that just as we are gazing
privily at the Germans, so the Germans are gazing privily at us. A
mere strip of level earth separates them from us, but that strip is
impassable, save at night, when the Frenchmen often creep up to
the German wire. There is a terrible air of permanency about the
whole affair. Not only the passage of time produces this effect; the
telephone-wire running along miles of communication-trench, the
elaborateness of the fighting trenches, the established routine and
regularity of existence--all these also contribute to it. But the air of
permanency is fallacious. The Germans are in France.

Every day of slow preparation brings nearer the day when the
Germans will not be in France. That is certain. An immense
expectancy hangs over the land, enchanting it.

We leave the first-line trench, with regret. But we have been in it!

In the quarters of the Commandant, a farm-house at the back end
of the village, champagne was served, admirable champagne. We
stood round a long table, waiting till the dilatory should have arrived.
The party had somehow grown. For example, the cure came, amid
acclamations. He related how a Lieutenant had accosted him in
front of some altar and asked whether he might be allowed to
celebrate the Mass. "That depends," said the cure. "You cannot
celebrate if you are not a priest. If you are, you can." "I am a priest,"
said the Lieutenant. And he celebrated the Mass. Also the Intendant
came, a grey-haired, dour, kind-faced man. The Intendant has
charge of supplies, and he is cherished accordingly. And in addition
to the Commandant, and the Electric Man, and our Staff Captains,
there were sundry non-commissioned officers, and even privates.