"And our _poilus_, what!" "Admirable!" He added: "What a fine race they are!" I wondered whether he was speaking of the French or the Beaucerons. What should he do a little later on, but set about extolling the treasures lying dormant at the heart of these soldiers. "Most of them are married! They nearly all have kids! They never stop thinking of those who have stayed behind--of their family. That supports them. It's a case of morale!" "Steady on! Don't exaggerate!" They were good fellows, the majority, I admitted, and fond of their families, but the chief point about them was their resignation and passivity. A worthy herd! He insisted. "I assure you that they have their own personality and feelings, and often a very generous share of them. They are certainly no phrase-makers; it is even very difficult to get them to talk. They mistrust you and themselves. You would think that they realised that they would spoil their feelings by trying to express them in their peasant jargon." "Well?" "Look how they find a way of writing every or almost every day! Some of the men in the platoon have asked me to write the addresses, so that they should be readable. Others, even, to wield the pen while they dictated the text. Oh, just dull commonplace formulas, but what a tender longing in them to reassure and cheer. That all declare, whatever happens, that they are resting, far away from the Bosches, that everything is going excellently. 'Don't you worry!' is what they say. What philosophy!" "And I'll quote some examples of delicacy; for instance, your Corporal, Donnadieu, who was hit...." I opened my mouth to tell him of the man's trick, a villainy which had remained unknown. "Well," he continued, "I've got a man from his part of the world, from Neuville. He wrote a letter to the wife, who is just starting a new baby, to tell her that her husband had been pinked--in case he had not been able to let her know--but that it was nothing serious, and that he would keep her informed!" Guillaumin now described the arrival of the baggage-master, in the farmyard the other day (I had missed this scene), and the distribution of the letters and cards. Some of them had wept. Others hid themselves to kiss the humble note-paper. What a singular state of mind! I considered these men around me lying about like a lot of animals, their filthy faces, and obtuse foreheads and dull looks. Bouillon, Gaudéreaux, Judsi, did they dream? Yes.... Perhaps there were visions of children and wives wandering behind the brute-like masks! For the first time I was drawn to them by a brotherly instinct. I hazarded: "And yet it must be sad to leave some one behind...."