We now find ourselves in one of the gayest corners of Bucy; a very select place, moreover, to which one can only gain admittance by introduction. Here Milliard the postman is the oracle, along with Henriot, his acolyte. Here lodges the _train de combat_, i.e. the conductors of the regimental carriages. These infantry, who ride on horseback all the same, form a separate corporation. Even their dress is different from that of other soldiers: leather jackets and spurs. Their names are Charlot, Petit-Louis, and Grand-Victor. Their functions take them to Soissons and bring them daily into contact with the rearguard service. Varlet, as a friend, has requested permission to introduce me. His request has been backed by Milliard and Henriot. "Bring him along, then," they said. At any hour of the day one can always find at Madame Maillard's white wine, cards and tobacco. In a corner Henriot is sorting the letters. Milliard, after noting the parcels in a book, encloses them in a big bag. "Are the letters for Achains' ready?" asks Varlet. "Yes, here's the packet. We will bring you the parcels shortly." The first thing we do on our return is to shout out-- "We have each had a pint of white wine at the _train de combat_." "White wine, impossible! You lucky fellows!" I have no idea why white wine is so scarce. In war there are hosts of things one cannot understand at all. _Monday, 21st December._ During the night a regiment of territorials have arrived who have not yet seen fire. They make a fine _début_, for Bucy is subjected to a heavier bombardment than ever; explosions for three hours without a break. A rain of iron splinters and balls falls upon the roof of our lodging. The tiles come toppling down into the yard. Varlet, who has gone for some of the famous white wine to the _train de combat_, rushes into the room, looking horribly scared as he clasps three bottles to his breast. At the corner of the street he had encountered two shrapnels. "The first," he said, "went on its way, but I thought the second had got me. It knocked a piece off the doorpost beneath which I had rushed for shelter." "Oh, _you_ wouldn't have been any great loss, but the bottles----" The house shakes with the shock of the explosions, which come nearer and nearer. _Sabots_ are clattering in the yard. The Achains and the women from neighbouring houses hurry to take refuge in the cellar. We should be wise to follow their example. That, however, would mean leaving the lunch, which is simmering on the fire! Besides, there's something attractive in the idea of brazening the thing out. The explosions continue. By way of the chimney, which serves as an acoustic tube, we hear the dull, distant detonation as the shell leaves the gun, then the hissing sound, which increases in volume, and finally the violent explosion a few yards away. A projectile crashes through the roof of the house opposite.