Boom! There’s another one now and nearer to us, near the sugar refinery. A crash, an avalanche of bricks; this time it is the chimney of the sawmill which falls on the horses’ cantonment. It was time, five minutes sooner and we would have been under it. “Go on, go on.... Gallop, for God’s sake. Corporals ... keep the distances.... Spread out the squads.... Get into the fields ... behind the trees.” We reach the deep path like a whirlwind, while the bombardment rages over the village more than ever. “Any accident? Anyone hit? Good. Assemble, and on the trot now.” Ten minutes later we are in the shelter of Muguet wood, completely shut off from the view of the Boche artillery. The wood deserves its name, for it scents the air a hundred yards about with the perfume of violets and lilies of the valley, which form a carpet between the trees and which our mules, entirely insensible to the subtle beauties of nature, begin to eat as though they were common fodder. “Corporals ... look to your sections.... Is everyone here?... All the horses too?” I cast a rapid glance over the parked beasts. “Look, Liniers, where is Chocolate?” And indeed where was Chocolate? How did it happen that Chocolate wasn’t there? Still he had been with the rest at the sawmill. Chocolate, as the veteran of the echelon, received special consideration from the men. As far as the dispositions of the cantonment permitted, they reserved for him a covered shelter, a feeding rack, and a manger. This time the sawmill offered many resources. The stable walls still stood with only a few gaps, and the roof was still intact. Beside some artillery horses, who were generally absent, there was an available place and they had given it to Chocolate. And there the drivers had forgotten him. If it had been any other animal we would have let him go, but Chocolate was an entirely different matter and we must go and find him. “Raynal, I hand over the command of the detachment to you. Liniers, come with me, we’ll go and find Chocolate.” We went back over the path, on foot this time, but as fast as our legs would go. As we reached the village the intensity of the bombardment seemed to decrease. Were we going to be lucky enough to strike another lull? Again there were particularly violent explosions, nearer, then nothing more. We reached the village entirely out of breath. As we turned into the street which led to the sawmill Liniers stopped suddenly, as if petrified, and began to wave his hands. “M ...!” “What?” “The shed....” “Well, what about the shed?” “Demolished. Can’t you see? It’s gone.” We ran still faster. The shed was absolutely demolished and is now only a shapeless mass of rubbish, but there are no signs of a shell—no traces of burned timbers, no splinters. One would have thought that it had folded up and laid down on its side like a house of cards.