More guns, more hussars. It was difficult to walk across the narrow
streets. We watched our chance and broke through at last, going into a
house at random. As each house had soldiers billeted in it, it was
certain we would find some, and I was to see not selected quarters but
billets chosen at random. Through a narrow, whitewashed centre hall,
with men in the rooms on either side, and through a muddy kitchen,
where the usual family was huddled round a stove, we went into a tiny,
brick-paved yard. Here was a shed, a roof only, which still held what
remained of the winter's supply of coal.
Two soldiers were cooking there. Their tiny fire of sticks was built
against a brick wall, and on it was a large can of stewing meat. One
of the cooks--they were company cooks--was watching the kettle and
paring potatoes in a basket. The other was reading a letter aloud. As
the officers entered the men rose and saluted, their bright eyes
taking in this curious party, which included, of all things, a woman!
"When did you get in from the trenches?" one of the officers asked.
"At two o'clock this morning, _Monsieur le Capitaine_."
"And you have not slept?"
"But no. The men must eat. We have cooked ever since we returned."
Further questioning elicited the facts that he would sleep when his
company was fed, that he was twenty-two years old, and that--this not
by questions but by investigation--he was sheltered against the cold
by a large knitted muffler, an overcoat, a coat, a green sweater, a
flannel shirt and an undershirt.
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