The full moon had risen above the clouds and filled the apple orchard with chilly golden light that cast a fantastic shadow pattern of interlaced twigs and branches upon the bare ground littered with apples. The sound of the guns had grown nearer. There were loud eager rumbles as of bowls being rolled very hard on a bowling alley, combined with a continuous roar like sheets of iron being shaken. “Ah bet it's hell out there,” said Chrisfield. “I feel better,” said Judkins. “Let's go get some more cognac.” “Ah'm hungry,” said Chrisfield. “Let's go an' get that ole woman to cook us some aigs.” “Too damn late,” growled Judkins. “How the hell late is it?” “Dunno, I sold my watch.” They were walking at random through the orchard. They came to a field full of big pumpkins that gleamed in the moonlight and cast shadows black as holes. In the distance they could see wooded hills. Chrisfield picked up a medium-sized pumpkin and threw it as hard as he could into the air. It split into three when it landed with a thud on the ground, and the moist yellow seeds spilled out. “Some strong man, you are,” said Judkins, tossing up a bigger one. “Say, there's a farmhouse, maybe we could get some aigs from the hen-roost.” “Hell of a lot of hens....” At that moment the crowing of a rooster came across the silent fields. They ran towards the dark farm buildings. “Look out, there may be officers quartered there.” They walked cautiously round the square, silent group of buildings. There were no lights. The big wooden door of the court pushed open easily, without creaking. On the roof of the barn the pigeon-cot was etched dark against the disc of the moon. A warm smell of stables blew in their faces as the two men tiptoed into the manure-littered farmyard. Under one of the sheds they found a table on which a great many pears were set to ripen. Chrisfield put his teeth into one. The rich sweet juice ran down his chin. He ate the pear quickly and greedily, and then bit into another. “Fill yer pockets with 'em,” whispered Judkins. “They might ketch us.” “Ketch us, hell. We'll be goin' into the offensive in a day or two.” “Ah sure would like to git some aigs.” Chrisfield pushed open the door of one of the barns. A smell of creamy milk and cheeses filled his nostrils. “Come here,” he whispered. “Want some cheese?” A lot of cheeses ranged on a board shone silver in the moonlight that came in through the open door. “Hell, no, ain't fit te eat,” said Judkins, pushing his heavy fist into one of the new soft cheeses. “Doan do that.” “Well, ain't we saved 'em from the Huns?” “But, hell.” “War ain't no picnic, that's all,” said Judkins. In the next door they found chickens roosting in a small room with straw on the floor. The chickens ruffled their feathers and made a muffled squeaking as they slept. Suddenly there was a loud squawking and all the chickens were cackling with terror. “Beat it,” muttered Judkins, running for the gate of the farmyard.