The men were well on their way when dawn broke, and the rim of the sky flushed crimson. Dead mules lay on the cobbled ways, torn with ghastly wounds; drivers in khaki, helplessly impotent, lay huddled amidst their broken limbers. The roadway was gutted by shells and the poplars that lined the path were scarred and peeled by many a projectile. Behind, the shells were bursting and the sound of explosions quivered through the crisp clear air. If the men looked back they could see the hills behind, rising out of the dawn, the white mists in the Zouave valley--the valley of Death, the Cabaret Rouge, the inn on the Souchez Road, and Souchez itself which is now a heap of powdered dust. War had rent and riven many a village but Souchez it had powdered to dust. Not the fragment of a single wall remained standing and not a whole brick remained of the village of Souchez. Higher than any of the hills of Lorrette rose "The Pimple," the highest peak in the district. From the top mile after mile of the surrounding country was visible--woods, roads, towns, villages and canals. The French were supposed to be holding it. Sergeant Snogger, who had been marching in front, came back and kept in step with Bowdy Benners and his mates. "The French lost 'The Pimple' last night," he said. "There were two thousand 'oldin' the place and the Germans turned every damned gun they'd got on it. Blew it to blazes, they did. Not one Frenchman came back; and they say none was taken prisoners. They were damned unlucky." Half-an-hour's march brought the men to a little village, broken, ruined, untenanted. There they halted while the officers inspected the cellars, seeking shelter where their men might sleep. Snogger's friends were lucky and found a cellar, the floor of which was littered with hay, and here they lay down, but not before they lit a candle to frighten the rats away. Holding himself erect, Snogger tried to unbuckle his equipment, but his fingers were unable to perform the task. "Damn it!" he shouted in a petulant voice and collapsed in a heap on the straw where he lay crumpled up. He might have been hit in the head by a bullet so sudden was his fall. The men lay near the bottom of the cellar stairs; the apartment lost itself in unfathomable corners, and there the rats were scurrying backwards and forwards. Bowdy was just dropping off to sleep when a hoarse sepulchral yell echoed through the cellar and a strange unearthly figure rushed into the circle of candle-light, waving his arms in the air and shouting in a strange incoherent voice. The men were looking at a French soldier. He came to a halt at the foot of the stairs; his eyelids slowly opened, the eyes took in the apartment--the dim candle, the forms lying on the floor. "Who are you?" he asked in a steady voice. Then as if collecting his scattered wits he muttered: "You are billeted here. I have just come down from the 'Pimple'.... I'm the only man left.... Who has a drop of water to spare?"