The gate in the wall was unlocked, and through the aperture he caught a glimpse of a trim garden and a comfortable-looking house. "This," said the Subaltern to himself, "is just the sort of place that the Captain would choose for his headquarters." He slipped into the garden and peeped through one of the windows. Sure enough, there were the Captain, the Senior Subaltern and the Doctor. They had already risen and were trying to boil a kettle on the ashes of last night's fire. It was not an inviting scene, by any means, but he pushed open the door, and started in the search for food. The room in which he found them was a typical French kitchen, with a dirty grey ceiling, walls, and stone floor. The furniture consisted of a table, a couple of forms, and a chair or two. Otherwise there was absolutely no attempt at either comfort or adornment. Ransacking a dirty cupboard, the Subaltern drew forth in triumph a promising-looking bottle, and having pulled the cork, smelt at the contents with caution. It contained a curious sort of liquor, apparently home made, which saved their lives that morning. Then the Doctor, after many amusing efforts to clean himself in a bucket, went off to the improvised hospital that had been set up in the village. The early part of the morning passed peacefully enough; but the bombardment was renewed at about seven o'clock, and was followed by a hasty evacuation of the village to reinforce the front line. The Captain's Company, however, and one other, were ordered to stand by in reserve, but to be prepared to move at a moment's notice. The bombardment rolled on as usual for about an hour. Then came a tremendous crash, which made every wall and roof tremble, and gave warning that something worse than ordinary had happened. Everybody rushed into the street, but there was no longer a square. One of the "Jack Johnsons" had alighted in the centre of it. The first glance at the scene disclosed the fact that the fountain had been blown sky high, and the cobbles torn up like pebbles, but it was not until afterwards that one realised that there had been men in that square. None was left alive in it now. One poor fellow had been struck by a piece of shell and had died before his head had crashed against the ground. The colour of the dead face reminded the Subaltern hauntingly of the grey walls of the kitchen. Fortunately, the eyes were closed, but the horror of the thing--the shattered skull, the protruding, blood-smeared brains, bit into the Subaltern's soul. He gazed at it for a moment, spellbound, and then turned in towards the kitchen, feeling broken and humiliated. "We must get them into better shelter than this," said the Captain. "That might happen again."