Boche torpedoes are decidedly disagreeable to listen to. The spot which seems fated to receive more than its share is the small fort north of St. Georges, 350 yards from the "Brick Bridge." The Fusiliers have written on the sandbags: "Go easy--a dangerous bend!" PETITES MARMITES,[14] ON THE ROAD TO LOMBAERTZYDE. _August_, 1915. Commandant de Jonquières invited my comrade, Guéneau, and myself, to luncheon at the Sub-commandant's Post North--a spot that had a villainous reputation. The house is riddled with bullet and shell-holes. A room is still habitable and there is found, admirably prepared, the commandant's table, with white linen napkins properly placed at each plate like a metropolitan restaurant. What a menu! The Marines dine well. The second course has been served when a loud explosion occurs in the vestibule: a 105 has burst in the house and the dining-room is filled with dust and smoke. Commandant de Jonquières without rising from his chair cries out: "Anybody hit, men?" A Marine investigates and replies: "Nobody, commandant, but there is some plaster in the cream. Shall I replenish it?" "Call the chef." The chef, a big, robust individual, comes in immediately. "Commandant?" "Listen. You have forgotten to write '_Petite Marmite_' on our menu. Another time don't forget it. That's all!" And, turning to us, he said, as if nothing had happened: "You know I saw a movie in Toulon that was absolutely amazing, but I have seen better in Paris, some months before the war----" THE SADDEST THING IN THE WAR, BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _August_, 1915. A listening post between the Passchendael and Evacuation canals. It is night--a night very black and without moon. I find a group of Marines seated on the ground chatting and I listen---- "What is the saddest thing you have seen, you?" "It was at the beginning--we were in Belgium. It made me cry to see the burning towns, the poor people fleeing with everything they could carry, and that was not much. It was sad--and it gave one the blues! It hit them hard so suddenly--poor people----" "And you, Pierre, what's the saddest tale you know of?" "The death of Commandant Jeanniot, at Dixmude----" There was deep silence, for they all recalled it. A man, aside from the others, had listened closely without speaking--the others turned toward him: "And you, _le vieux_, what would you say?" "The saddest? _Allons_, you have forgotten then our friend wounded between the lines who babbled 'mother' all night, and whom we could not rescue; the same whom we put out of misery!--when at dawn he called to us, 'Kill me--I suffer too much!'" "And you shot him?" I asked. "Yes, lieutenant, we killed him--but it is the saddest thing in my war----" _Tenez_, it seemed to be a night just like this and I could almost hear the cry "mother" in a plaintive voice that grew farther and farther away---- THE RED LANTERN AT THE FIRST AID STATION, NIEUPORT. _August_, 1915.