And yet, in the camp, these things are never talked of. The reason is that words which, in peace-time, too often veiled by their gross grandiloquence these deeper and finer feelings, would be insupportable now. This passion, for it is a passion, lies deep down in the heart with other sacred and inmost emotions, to give outward expression to which would be almost to profane them. * * * * * "Come on, now! Harness! Hook in! We're off." The rain had soured the men's tempers. "Now then! Be careful with your horse, can't you? You might have killed us!" "Untie your horses so that we can get the picket-lines, will you?... All right, damn you, I'll do it myself." "There's a silly fool! Fine place to tether a colt to--the wheel of an ammunition wagon. He's ripping up the oat-bag. Pull him off, can't you?" Cramone, threatening his team with his whip, repeated for the twentieth time: "I'll teach you how to behave, you brutes!" "There's another dish lost," shouted Millon. "Who's the idiot who didn't pick it up yesterday?" "Can't you pull your infernal mules back a bit?... We can't limber up.... Never seen such a fool!..." The men pushed and tugged at their horses, which, face to the wind, continued pulling this way and that in a vain attempt to prevent the rain stinging their ears. Bréjard lost his temper. "Lord, what a set! Can't you keep your horses straight?... Look at that off-leader!... Can't you see he's got entangled?..." "Thought we were going to have a rest to-day!" "I suppose the Germans are resting, aren't they?" The start was difficult. During the night the wheels of the vehicles had sunk deeper and deeper into the softening soil, and the horses' hoofs kept slipping on the slope. Once on the road the battery broke into a trot, the mud splashing in sprays from under the feet of the horses. Some of the gunners, attacked by colic, stopped in the ditches, and then, still doing up their breeches, ran along by the side of the column in order to overtake their vehicles. We were going to extend a strong artillery position on the heights of the Meuse valley. From the hills near Stenay the sound of the guns reached us in gusts, and, some distance off, above the woods, we could see the shrapnel shells bursting. The rain had stopped, and the sky, dark a moment previously, suddenly cleared and assumed a uniformly light grey tint. In a meadow by the roadside some peasants, fleeing before the tide of invasion, had set up their nightly camp. A large green awning sheltered their cart and formed a tent at the same time. Two shafts projected from the front end, pointing skywards. An old man and two women--both pregnant--with half a dozen children clinging to their skirts, watched us go by. The road rose stiffly upwards, and the column slackened its pace to a walk. I heard one of the women say to the old man, as she gave him a nudge with her elbow: "Go on, father!" The old man hesitated, but she insisted: