In my ears as I sit here is a curious sound, a sound like the pounding of tremendous breakers on a stormy shore: it is the guns of Verdun, Les Eparges and St. Mihiel. At rhythmic intervals this sound is punctuated by heavy crashing thuds nearer at hand. They are shelling Dugny again. All the civilians fled yesterday. A driver, coming in last night, told us how they went, empty-handed, creeping along the edges of the roads under the cover of trees or brush, fearing to step out in the open lest they be spied and bombed by the German aeroplanes overhead. The church where they held the poilu’s funeral has already been struck by a shell and the steeple demolished. In front of the house the street is quiet. All through the day the town seems a sleepy deserted place, but at night it is a different matter; then the real business of the day begins. Carts and camions may straggle past at odd intervals during the daylight hours, but with darkness, the traffic starts to pour by in a perfectly unbroken stream. One lies awake and listens, it seems for hours, to the absolutely incessant rattle of carts, trucks, caissons and gun carriages passing along the road, until it seems as if the whole French Army must be on the move. Little Pauline is better today. She has just come running into the garden through the back gate, in company with a big curly dog. Rattentout they tell us is the “Dog Town” for this sector; every dog picked up near the front, lost mascots, faithful beasts looking for their masters, strays of every sort, are sent back here for keeping. Presently I must go in and help M. get the supper. Our food, over and beyond what we brought from Bar-le-Duc in tins and sacks, is furnished us by the French Army. Every morning a dapper little corporal calls to take our orders. When the official interpreter is out it falls to me to do the parleying. The corporal is patient and very military and oh so polite! He brings us fresh butter, fresh eggs, even so much as a quart of fresh milk, and the most delicious fresh French bread I have ever tasted. The first day he came he was dreadfully distressed; he had no fresh meat to offer us. This morning he shone with smiles. There was plenty of fresh beef now, plenty! We ordered some and ate it stewed for dinner. It was dark and tough and stringy. I could dare swear that I saw that “beef” freshly slaughtered yesterday at Dugny cross-roads. A French _liaison_ officer called here this afternoon. He told me that it was quite true that a certain regiment of French infantry had gone into battle, each man carrying with him the wooden cross which was to mark his grave if he fell. To earn _le croix de bois_ is the current slang phrase among the French to designate dying a soldier’s death.