had been born in the village, how he had been married there, how he had
kept the _estaminet_ for twenty years, how all the leading men of the
village came of an evening and talked over the things that were
happening in Paris.

He started shouting, as men will--

"What does it matter what I sell, what I receive? What does
it matter, for have I not to leave all this?"

Then his wife came up and put her hand on his arm--

"Now, now; give the gentlemen their beer."

I bought some cherry brandy and came away.

I was sent on a couple of messages that afternoon: one to trace a
telephone wire to a deserted station with nothing in it but a sack of
excellent potatoes, another to an officer whom I could not find. I
waited under a tree eating somebody else's pears until I was told he had
gone mad, and was wandering aimlessly about.

It was a famous night for me. I was sent off to Dammartin, and knew
something would go wrong. It did. A sentry all but shot me. I nearly
rode into an unguarded trench across the road, and when I started back
with my receipt my bicycle would not fire. I found that the mechanic at
Dammartin had filled my tank with water. It took me two hours, two lurid
hours, to take that water out. It was three in the morning when I got
going. I was badly frightened the Division had gone on, because I hadn't
the remotest conception where it was going to. When I got back H.Q. were