I now coil myself up in the “O.P.” corner of the stage of the municipal theatre. It is curious to see by the dim light of the pilot lights forty or fifty men sleeping on the boards with their rifles stacked between them. The curtain is up, but the auditorium is dark and empty, for what is probably the most realistic and interesting scene that has ever been set between its proscenium. I am surrounded by a crowd of French people of every age and of all shapes and sizes. The fact that I am writing a letter seems to strike them as an incident of extraordinary interest. “Here’s one writing a letter,” they call to their friends, and they all flock round. The people of this town press round us when we feed, sleep, wash, dress, and, in fact, at every moment of the day. Until we were quartered in the theatre some of the more modest soldiers were compelled to wait till it was dark before they could summon up sufficient courage to change their clothes. One old lady has just come up and tested the quality of the material of my tunic and has moved off nodding her head in approbation. Their interest in our welfare is practical, nevertheless: _Pte. F. J. St. Aubyn, Interpreter_. A Proper Adventure We saw a small body of Germans, and, having nothing better to do, we were told to go and capture them. There were thirty, and they all gave in except one, who made a rush for it right back past our convoy. Two of us went after him. The men on the lorries fired, but they were afraid of hitting us. He led us through the village, and turned up a back lane into a sort of builder’s yard. In that yard was a pit of soft lime, and we were all running so fast that we did not see it. It looked like sand. In he falls. I am following; in I goes; can’t stop in time; up to our waists. This bloke makes a grab at me; we have a struggle; we are going in further, gun and all. The other man is shouting, “Why don’t you shoot him?” but I couldn’t. The barrel was choked with lime. Then he spit in my face. That done it. I hit him just a tap with the butt end of my rifle on the napper, and down he went. Meanwhile my pal had gone for help. They fetched planks, ladders, and all sorts of things. At last they pulled me out by sticking my head and shoulders through the rungs. You should have seen me when I did get out--a very pretty sight. When the women saw me they tore all the things off me and threw pails of water over me and thoroughly dowsed me. One woman gave me an old skirt to put on, and I marched back like that. As far as I know, that “sausage” is there now, as he did not wake up after that tap for luck: _An Infantry Private_. “Culture” for Them