Childish songs, with a good swing to them. Fatigue was forgotten. Mile followed mile in the heat and dust. A refrain of that kind swept right along the column. While we drew breath, snatches of couplets reached us from the distance. "Like nothin' on earth, those caterwaulers!" Judsi exclaimed. Oh, that Judsi! What a type he was! The incarnation, the flower of the race. In each platoon of France's army, from end to end of the campaign, I bet there was a Judsi. A street-urchin, from Paris or elsewhere.... An apache yesterday, perhaps--it was quite possible--but ennobled to-day by circumstances! He was an admirable source of good-humour. Made to cheer up the others. He chatted without ceasing for hours and hours at a time, accumulating eccentricities of mimicry and expression. Nothing pleased him so much as to see that we were listening. That was the time when we played up hardest. I swear that by the unexpectedness of his sallies and the inflections of his hoarse voice, he often attained a pitch of drollery which was quite priceless. His slightest absurdities gave rise to fits of hilarious gaiety. The men pressed round him, as if on parade. It even interfered with the marching order. What should he do but organise relays! Every quarter of an hour, he said to his neighbours: "'Ook it lads! Send some other pals along now, an' we'll see if I can't raise a smile out of 'em." They gave up their places without any sour looks. "Ain't 'e a caution!" "Fit to make yer split, the blighter!" He was never in better form than when we were in the tightest places, when all the others were down in the dumps. On the "Beauclair" evening, when we had to retire, he was worth seeing as he went off shouldering his rifle, with a Uhlan's helmet, picked up in some house, in his hand, and the air of a gentleman who had just put an end to the war in the most brilliant style, and was on his way home where his little wife was waiting to welcome him with open arms! Or again on the next day.... A hail of shells, which was beginning, had just set fire to a little bit of a house. He asked the cook's permission to make the coffee, carried off the camp kettle, collected some brands from the beams, and boiled the water on them at the window. The shower of the "Black Marias" continued. It was a miracle that he was not killed. But his luck, our luck, held. What endless queer characters there were! Lamalou, Bouguet, Gaudéreaux. We've seen them all at work--one might go on naming them indefinitely. And Bouillon! He had come one morning to ask my advice as to how to send money orders. I had taken it as a joke: "Send them, my dear fellow? This is more the sort of time to receive them!" "It's for Marie," he said, "who's stayed behind with the kid!" "Your kid?" "I don't know about that!"