The first time I went on I was told by the N.C.O. in charge that no one was to come through the hedge that bounded the farm and the road after lights out, and if any one attempted to do so I was to shoot on sight. So I marched up and down my short beat in the small hours between two and four, listening to the far-off muttering of guns and watching the Verey lights like a miniature firework display, praying that some spy would try and enter the gap in the hedge. My finger was never very far from the trigger, and my beat was never more than two yards from the hedge. I didn’t realize then that we were so far from the line that the chances of a strolling Hun were absurd. Looking back on it I am inclined to wonder whether the N.C.O. didn’t tell me to shoot on sight because he knew that the sergeant’s billet was down that road and the hedge was a short cut. The sergeant wasn’t very popular. There was an _estaminet_ across the road from the farm, and the officers had arranged for us to have the use of the big room. It was a godsend, that _estaminet_, with its huge stove nearly red-hot, its bowls of coffee and the single glass of raw cognac which they were allowed to sell us. The evenings were the only time one was ever warm, and although there was nothing to read except some old and torn magazines we sat there in the fetid atmosphere just to keep warm. The patron talked vile French but was a kindly soul, and his small boy, Gaston, aged about seven, became a great friend of mine. He used to bring me my coffee, his tiny, dirty hands only just big enough to hold the bowl, and then stand and talk while I drank it, calling me “thou.” “_T’es pas anglais, dis?_” And I laughed and said I was French. “_Alors comment qu’ t’es avec eux, dis?_” And when one evening he came across and looked over my shoulder as I was writing a letter, he said, “_Qué que t’écris, dis?_” I told him I was writing in English. He stared at me and then called out shrilly, “_Papa. V’là l’Français qu’écrit en anglais!_” He had seen the Boche, had little Gaston, and told me how one day the Uhlans had cleaned the _estaminet_ out of everything,--wine, cognac, bread, blankets, sheets--_les sales Boches!_