There were shrill cries of women in the house. A voice shrieking, “C'est les Boches, C'est les Boches,” rose above the cackling of chickens and the clamor of guinea-hens. As they ran, they heard the rasping cries of a woman in hysterics, rending the rustling autumn night. “God damn,” said Judkins breathless, “they ain't got no right, those frogs ain't, to carry on like that.” They ducked into the orchard again. Above the squawking of the chicken Judkins still held, swinging it by its legs, Chrisfield could hear the woman's voice shrieking. Judkins dexterously wrung the chicken's neck. Crushing the apples underfoot they strode fast through the orchard. The voice faded into the distance until it could not be heard above the sound of the guns. “Gee, Ah'm kind o' cut up 'bout that lady,” said Chrisfield. “Well, ain't we saved her from the Huns?” “Andy don't think so.” “Well, if you want to know what I think about that guy Andy I don't think much of him. I think he's yaller, that's all,” said Judkins. “No, he ain't.” “I heard the lootenant say so. He's a goddam yeller dawg.” Chrisfield swore sullenly. “Well, you juss wait 'n see. I tell you, buddy, war ain't no picnic.” “What the hell are we goin' to do with that chicken?” said Judkins. “You remember what happened to Eddie White?” “Hell, we'd better leave it here.” Judkins swung the chicken by its neck round his head and threw it as hard as he could into the bushes. They were walking along the road between chestnut trees that led to their village. It was dark except for irregular patches of bright moonlight in the centre that lay white as milk among the indentated shadows of the leaves. All about them rose a cool scent of woods, of ripe fruits and of decaying leaves, of the ferment of the autumn countryside. The lieutenant sat at a table in the sun, in the village street outside the company office. In front of him sparkled piles of money and daintily tinted banknotes. Beside him stood Sergeant Higgins with an air of solemnity and the second sergeant and the corporal. The men stood in line and as each came before the table he saluted with deference, received his money and walked away with a self-conscious air. A few villagers looked on from the small windows with grey frames of their rambling whitewashed houses. In the ruddy sunshine the line of men cast an irregular blue-violet shadow, like a gigantic centipede, on the yellow gravel road. From the table by the window of the cafe of “Nos Braves Poilus” where Small and Judkins and Chrisfield had established themselves with their pay crisp in their pockets, they could see the little front garden of the house across the road, where, behind a hedge of orange marigolds, Andrews sat on the doorstep talking to an old woman hunched on a low chair in the sun just inside the door, who leant her small white head over towards his yellow one.