A young Russian officer in the French dragoons told me that he had been fighting since the beginning of the war with never more than three hours sleep a night and often no sleep at all. On many nights those brief hours of rest were in beetroot fields in which the German shrapnel had been searching for victims, and he awakened now and then to listen to the well-known sound of that singing death before dozing off again. It was "Boot and saddle" at four o'clock in the morning, before the dawn. It was cold then--a cold which made men tremble as with an ague. A cup of black coffee was served, and a piece of bread. The Russian officer of French dragoons, who has lived in British Colonies, saw a vision then--a false mirage--of a British breakfast. It was the thought of grilled bloaters, followed by ham and eggs, which unmanned him for a moment. Ten minutes later the cavalry was moving away. A detachment was sent forward on a mission of peril, to guard a bridge. There was a bridge near Béthune one night guarded by a little patrol. It was only when the last man had been killed that the Germans made their way across. Through the darkness these mounted men leaned forward over their saddles, peering for the enemy, listening for any jangle of stirrup or clink of bit. On that night there came a whisper from the cavalry leader. "They are coming! ... Quiet there!" A file of dark shadows moved forward. The dragoons swung their carbines forward. There was a volley of shots before a cry rang out. "Cessez feu! Cessez feu!" The cry had been heard before from German officers speaking excellent French, but this time there was no treachery in it. The shadows who moved forward through the night were Frenchmen changing from one trench to another. 16 The infantryman had a hard time, too. It was true that theoretically he might sometimes snatch a few hours of sleep in a trench or out in an open field, but actually the coldness of the night was often an acute agony, which kept him awake. The food question was a difficult one. When there was heavy fighting to be done, and rapid marching, the provisions became as theoretical as the hours of sleep. I heard the graphic recital of a sergeant of infantry, which was typical of many others in those early days. His section awakened one morning near Armentières with a famishing hunger, to find an old peasant woman coming up with a great barrow-load of potatoes. "These are for your breakfast, my little ones," she said. "See, I have some faggots here. If you care to make a fire there will be roast potatoes for you in twenty minutes."