But no shells were
falling in E----.
The station was a small village one. In the room corresponding to our
baggage-room straw had been spread over the floor, and men just out of
the trenches lay there in every attitude of exhaustion. In a tiny room
just beyond two or three women were making soup. As fast as one kettle
was ready it was served to the hungry men. There were several
kettles--all the small stove would hold. Soup was there in every
state, from the finished product to the raw meat and vegetables on a
table.
Beyond was a waiting-room, with benches. Here were slightly injured
men, bandaged but able to walk about. A few slept on the benches,
heads lolled back against the whitewashed wall. The others were paying
no attention to the incessant, nearby firing, but were watching a boy
who was drawing.
He had a supply of coloured crayons, and the walls as high as he could
reach were almost covered. There were priests, soldier types,
caricatures of the German Emperor, the arms of France and Belgium--I
do not remember what all. And it was exceedingly well done. The boy
was an artist to his finger tips.
At a clever caricature of the German Emperor the soldiers laughed and
clapped their hands. While they were laughing I looked through an open
door.
Three men lay on cots in an inner room--rather, two men and a boy.
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