Those who come from rural districts all complain of the stomach, an organ which is just as likely to represent to their minds the bronchi as the intestines. The doctor accordingly asks-- "Which stomach? The one that eats or the one that breathes?" Every one receives his deserts. The genuine cases are "exempt from trench service"; those who are war-worn and tired out are exempted from some particular duty. As for the rest, the major writes opposite their names on the sergeant's card the words, _Visite motivée_, a cabalistic formula implying that there was no reason whatsoever why they should have come up for examination. Things are carried on just the same as in barracks; the same tricks are employed. The other day Jules unhesitatingly placed on the stove the thermometer which the attendant had put in his armpit. The mercury rose to 430 Centigrade! The doctor nearly had a fit. Jules is still outside the hospital walls. At the exit those officially recognized as ill appear with radiant faces; those who have met with a snubbing and are declared to be well have drawn features and generally the air of a man at death's door. Opposite my name the major has written, "To be kept in hospital." I look as though I had won the first prize in a lottery, and already feel considerably better. The attendants carry me off to their room, a regular paradise. A 105 shell has fallen right on the staircase, reducing everything to matchwood on its way, but the rest of the place is intact: beds, a large fire, a good table, lamps. We play at cards, smoke, chat, do anything to kill time. Outside, for a change, the rain falls harder than ever. CHAPTER X BOMBARDMENTS _Thursday, 17th December._ I leave the hospital and make my way to the Achains' to wait for my five mates, who at nightfall will come down from the trenches with the rest of the company. I lay the cover: heavy plates with pieces broken off, tin forks and spoons, thick glasses. No knives; each man must supply his own. Here they come at last.... What a state they are in! Mud from head to foot. Quick with their letters, slippers, and something to eat. We stay up late, chatting by the fireside. _Friday, 18th December._ This evening the section is on guard at the Montagne farm, but Reymond, momentarily requisitioned for some design work at the commander's bureau, remains at Bucy; I also stay behind, having just left the hospital. This Montagne farm is anything but a pleasant spot. Yesterday another light infantryman was carried away with his head shattered by a 150-gun shell. Our friends start at four. We should be glad to see them back again already. "Now, be careful. No nonsense, remember!" A _tête-à-tête_ dinner, a very quiet affair, after which we lie down on our beds. "How comfortable!" Yes, indeed, this is the real thing. We might almost imagine ourselves back in civil life!