He helped to make
the fire, to pack it with potatoes. He added his eloquence to that of his
comrades when the fragrant smell made his nostrils quiver. And just
as the potatoes were nearly done up came a motor cyclist with orders
that the section was to move on immediately to a place fifteen
kilometres away. It was a tragedy! There were tearful farewells to
those potatoes. Fifteen kilometres away there was a chateau, and a
friendly lady, and a good cook who prepared a dinner of excellent
roast beef and most admirable fried potatqes. And just as the lady
came to say "Mes amis, le diner est servi," up panted a Belgian
cyclist with the news that German cavalry was advancing in strong
force accompanied by 500 motor-cars with mitrailleuses and many
motor-cycles, and a battery of horse artillery. It was another tragedy!
And the third took place sixteen hours later, when this section of
infantry which had been marching most of that time lay down on an
open field to sleep without a supper.
Yet--"Nothing matters except the rain," said a friend of mine in the
French artillery. He shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, and an
expression of disgust came upon his bearded face. He was thinking,
perhaps, of his beloved guns which lose their mobility in the
quagmires of the fields.
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