Part 9

"That's all very well, mother," volunteered a little dried up Corporal. "But how about their incendiary shells? You'll get one of them sooner or later. See if you don't!"

"If it comes, we'll take it; we've seen lots worse than that! Humph! That's no reason why you should mess up a house that belongs to your own people, is it? I'd like to know what your wife would say if she caught you smoking a pipe in her hay loft?"

Shouts of laughter from the culprits. Then a tall, lean fellow, taking her side, called out:

"She's right, boys, she had a hard enough job getting the hay in all by herself. Put out your pipes since that seems to get on her nerves. Now then, mother, there's always a way of settling a question between honest people. We won't smoke in your hay any more; that is, provided you'll sell us fresh vegetables for our mess."

The old woman was trapped and had to surrender, which she did, but most ungraciously, all the while moaning that she would more than likely die of starvation the following Winter. So a moment later the group dispersed on hearing the news that the "Auto-bazaar" had arrived.

This auto-bazaar certainly contained more treasures than were ever dreamed of in ancient Golconda. There was everything the soldier's heart might desire, from gun grease and cigarette paper down to wine and provisions; the whole stored away in a literal honey-comb of shelves and drawers with which the sides were lined.

The men all hurried forward. Loaded with water bottles, their hands full of coppers, they clustered about it.

From his dominating position at the rear end of the truck, the store-keeper announced:

"No more pork pie left!"

This statement brought forth several indignant oaths from the disappointed.

"It's always that way, they're probably paid to play that joke on us. It was the same story last time! We'll send in a complaint. See if we don't."

But these grumblings were soon outvoiced by the announcement--

"Plenty of head-cheese and camembert. Now then! boys, who's ready?"

The effect was instantaneous.

Smiles broke out on every countenance. The good news was quickly spread abroad, and presently the sound of plates and dishes, clinking cups, and joyful laughter recalled a picnic which we had organised in the vicinity, one warm July afternoon some four years ago.

A military band rehearsing a march in an open field just behind us added life and gaiety to the scene, and reminded me of the "Merry-go-round," the chief attraction of that defunct country fair, and upon which even the most dignified of our friends had insisted riding.

After all, could it be possible that this was the very midst of war? Was it such a terrible thing, since the air fairly rung with merriment?

"Make room there," called a gruff voice, not far distant.

"Stand aside! Quick now!"

The crowd parted, and a couple of stretcher bearers with their sad human burden put an end to my soliloquy. My afternoon was stained with blood. On their litter they bore a lad whose bloodless lips, fluttering eyelids, and heaving breast, bespoke unutterable suffering.

One must have actually witnessed such sights to realise the enormity of human agony, grasp the torment that a stupid bit of flying steel can inflict upon a splendid human frame--so well, so happy, so full of hope but a second since. Oh, the pity of it all!

"Who is it?" the men whisper.

"Belongs to the 170th. They replaced us. He was caught in the Boyau des Anglais."

"That's a wicked spot, that is!"

"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from an upper window, stopping an instant in the act of polishing his gun.

"No," answers some one.

The enquirer recommenced his work, and with it the refrain of his song, just where he had left off.

"Sur les bords de la Riviera," sang he blithely.