They made an archway of white blossom above our
heads, and the warm sun of the day drew out their perfume. Away on
either side of us the fields were streaked with long rays of brilliant
yellow where saffron grew as though the sun had split bars of molten
metal there, and below the hillside the pear-blossom and cherry-
blossom which bloomed in deserted orchards lay white and gleaming
like snow on the Swiss peaks in summer.
"Even war is less horrible now that the sun shines," said a French
officer.
The sky was cloudlessly blue, but as I gazed up into a patch of it,
where a winged machine flew high with a humming song, five tiny
white clouds appeared quite suddenly.
"They are shelling him," said the commandant. "Pretty close too."
Invisible in the winged machine was a French aviator, reconnoitring
the German lines away over Beausejour. Afterwards he became
visible, and I talked with him when he had landed in the aviation field,
where a number of aeroplanes stood ready for flight.
"They touched her three times," he said, pointing to his machine.
"You can see the holes where the shrapnel bullets pierced the metal
sheath."
He showed me how he worked his mitrailleuse, and then strolled
away to light a cigarette against the wind.
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