In the village the men belonging to the supporting columns have left their lairs and are attending to their usual occupations. Some of them are washing their clothes in the watering-trough in the square and singing as they wash. The company barber is installed near the fountain and the men form a circle about him as they wait their turn. On a butcher’s stall of white stone a cook is cutting up a quarter of beef into equal rations. Only two hundred yards from the enemy the village has taken up almost its usual existence again. These men are not afraid. At the sound of the first shell they jump into their cellars, which are amply protected by earth and boards. But they already have their customs. Shells only come at the hour when the supplies are brought up, and not always then, for the shelling doesn’t occur regularly every day. The enemy doesn’t waste munitions on a village he knows is so well destroyed. The fresh air and the long road have set our teeth on edge and given us an appetite. We halt to break a crust. Some have brought canteens of wine or coffee; bottles of preserves appear, and the improvident—I am one—pay homage to those who pass a full flask. The sun is already high when we start back along the road. [Illustration: A POILU _See page 56_] The lieutenant loves a quick pace and a marching song. So at the top of his lungs he begins one of his lively songs full of expressions that would have startled a growler of the Empire through their shamelessness, but which do not disturb the modesty of a Colonial at all, supposing that a Colonial ever had any. And the section leaders take up the refrain in chorus. Some steps behind, Sub-Lieutenant Delpos stops to light his fine Egyptian cigarette. In spite of the early hour and the uncertain weather, and with no thought of the disagreeable march through the sticky mud of the communication trench, he is dressed with the greatest care. His bright tan leggings are elegantly curved; his furred gloves are of the finest quality, and the pocket of his jacket, cut in the latest English style, shows a fine cambric handkerchief, subtly scented. And arm in arm we follow the quick pace of our comrades, while he continues the interrupted story of his latest exploit. “Yes, _mon cher_, picture to yourself an exquisite blonde. I met her on the Rue des Saints-Pères....” CHAPTER VI OUR FIRST ENGAGEMENT Yesterday evening at five o’clock we received an order to take our positions in the front line to support the attack which the second battalion would make at nine-thirty. It was raining. It has rained all the time for some months, and we have become accustomed to the mud and dampness. We left the cantonment at Morcourt at nightfall. We went along the towpath of the canal, across the bridge at Froissy, through the ruins of Éclusier and entered the communication trench which we knew as the “120 long.”