The nights are still very cold and to warm ourselves we have builded a comfortable fire by the sea. Sacks of sand, skillfully fixed by Richard, mask the flashes from the brazier, for otherwise they would certainly invite 77's and 105's which the enemy would not lose time dropping among us to disturb our momentary comfort in the first line. Reymond and I have many things to discuss and the hours pass relatively fast; the Marine Fusiliers come and go in the trenches and communicating lines with a sort of nervous activity that never leaves them night or day, a trait found only in men that follow the sea. The sector is extremely calm, the tide has gone out a bit and Reymond has sent a patrol to the other side of the evacuation canal. Soon the _poilu_ in charge of the patrol returns and, walking up to his superior, says: "Captain, we have been out reconnoitering the enemy; we saw a boche on sentinel duty; he did not see us--I believe I can get him." "How far is he?" "About half a mile away." "Go--get him!" We continued the conversation as the _poilu_ went on his errand; it struck us that the man had been deceived. As on a certain night they had charged on a blind, about a hundred yards from here---- The night was passing without incident when soon our brave chap returned and, assuming his former position before his officer, said: "Captain, I cannot get him--there is a network of barbed wire. Can I kill him?" "Why, certainly. Always use your own judgment. You don't usually have time to come back for instructions----" Again he started out and the heavens began to pale; we searched once more for images of the past in the glowing embers of the wood fire which was fast dying out. Suddenly, over there, toward the German lines, a rifle shot broke the stillness of the night, followed by the well-known machine-gun serenade; immediately rockets, star shell and the artillery came to life---- Reymond rises, standing very stiff and straight. "Ah, hang it! The poor devil must be shot to pieces----" Our own cannon begin to mix in the fray. Reymond decides to send some men after the others. He is visibly concerned about our soldiers and is on the verge of going himself. Just then the poilu stands before him for the third time, saluting respectfully: "Captain--I have killed him!" And he said it with a kind of accent that made a shiver run down the spine. The sky commences to resolve itself into long yellow and gray stripes--ah, Flanders!--ah, Flanders!---- SIGNS ALONG THE YSER, BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _May_, 1915. The Marine Fusiliers leave everywhere traces of their _esprit_. They have taken from a home, three-fourths demolished, a little statue of the Virgin, former protectress of the household. Carrying it into the first-line trenches with them, they have constructed a niche for the Virgin in the sandbags. With her open arms and sad air she seems to say to them: