I am fully convinced that in times of peace beetroots are extremely useful. This year, however, they poison the very existence of the foot-soldier, already sufficiently embittered. Ploughing one's way through fields of beetroots is enough to make one hate the war. Your foot twists and slips about in all directions. Hurled forward, you bruise your nose against the haversack of the man in front. Pulled backward, you receive from the man behind a blow in your ribs with the butt-end of his rifle. The night air is filled with groans and complaints. Where are we going? How can the officers find their way in the dark? One after another, feeling our way, each man runs in the wake of a fugitive shadow. On reaching the edge of the wood, we lose the path. The column is broken. Which direction are we to take? The wrong one, of course. Then heart-breaking rushes to and fro; we find every company except our own. Finally, day appears. Arrival at the trenches. Distribution of shovels and picks, and quick--to work. A very pleasant form of exercise: if it is raining you wallow about in mud; if it is dry you swallow sand all the time. Close by us belch forth our 75's, which the Germans would fain dislodge. Gradually the enemy's artillery riddles the entire plain with shot of every calibre. Nothing lessens that noisy good-humour peculiar to ourselves. The only thing that troubles us is with reference to eating and drinking. At such times as these, this is no easy problem to solve in the case of persons endowed with a good appetite. Only a few days ago we had scruples about cleanliness, and seized every opportunity of washing ourselves. Now we never think of it. It takes an effort to imagine what life must have been like in the good old times of peace and civilization--forty days ago! I have not had my shoes off since we left Villers-Cotterets. Roberty dispatches Jules, his orderly, to hunt about for something fit to eat. Off goes Jules; he is a man of poaching instincts, and being of seductive manners, receives unlimited credit. Along difficult paths, known to none but himself, he reaches Ambleny, or Ressons, or Gorgny. After several hours' absence he returns in triumph, bringing a large pot filled with an abominable cold stew which the squadron tastes. "It is made of a rabbit and an old hen," he explains. "I had them cooked together, along with some potatoes to make it more consistent." In a huge _musette_, Jules has also brought some white bread just baked, a number of pears, two pots of preserves, and a few bottles of wine. "This is good cheer!" we say. And so the day passes. If there is nothing to do we carve fantastic animals out of beetroots: one way of obtaining our revenge on that odious vegetable. At twilight we give up our picks and shovels and go down towards the village. A second edition of the noble game of the beetroot field.