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A boy officer came up out of a hole and saluted the
captain, who stepped back and said, in an emotional way:
"Tiens! C'est toi, Edouard?"
"Oui, mon Capitaine."
The boy had a fine, delicate, Latin face, with dark eyes and long,
black eyelashes.
"You are a lieutenant, then? How does it go, Edouard?"
"It does not go," answered the boy like that French sergeant in Ablain
St.-Nazaire. "This is a bad place. I lose my men every day. There were
three killed yesterday, and six wounded. To-day already there are two
killed and ten wounded."
Something broke in his voice.
"Ce n'est pas bon du tout, du tout!" ("It is not good at all, at
all!")
The captain clapped him on the shoulders, tried to cheer him.
"Courage, mon vieux!"
The rain shot down on us. Our feet slithered in deep, greasy mud.
Sharp stabs of flame vomited out of the slopes of Vimy. There was the
high, long-drawn scream of shells in flight to Notre Dame de Lorette.
Batteries of soixante-quinzes were firing rapidly, and their shells
cut through the air above us like scythes.


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