In outline the buildings, worn down by heavy shell fire, clung to each other for moral encouragement. They looked so tightly clustered in their common misery suffered by devastation. A shell, like the flash of lightning, hurtled over and resounded as does that kind of lightning after which one says: “That struck somewhere, all right.” The village was being used as the supply station for the regiment. Inside the shattered houses and barns the field kitchens had been drawn; in the dim light made by candles the mess sergeant was the centre of a group of unwashed louts dressed in greasy blue denim. “Say, Weaver, where’s our chow?” “Been sellin’ another quarter of beef to the Frogs again?” “Don’t you let us catch you at any o’ them fancy tricks.” Weaver was a small, shifty-looking person. It had been found out by the platoon that he had once sold the company axe to a Frenchman for a gallon of vin rouge, and since that time he had always been suspected of making away with the company’s rations. “How do you boys expect to git any chow if you don’t come after it? The chow was here, but you wasn’t.” “You think we can fight Germans and run up here after chow, too?” The men were belligerent. “Of course he does. These damned yellah grease balls ain’t got any sense.” “Yellow? I like that. Jist because you guys are up there at the front that ain’t no sign there ain’t other places jist as dangerous.” The squabble would have gone on indefinitely had not the arrival of a flock of shells ended it then. Weaver had thrown himself under the field kitchen, where he arrived at the same time his assistants did. The ration party had remained standing. “Get up, Weaver,” Harriman commanded, “and get our chow.” There was coffee, boiled potatoes, boiled beef and white bread. Placing a stick through the handles of the coffee container, Harriman and another man led the way. One man carried the bread and the other two brought the potatoes and meat. They walked along the road to the woods without an adventure. Through the woods they made their way without a mishap until they arrived at a clearing. Then, for some reason, a salvo of shells were fired which struck with the wild shriek of some lost soul. After the shell had exploded, the man with the bread could be seen gathering up the loaves from where they had rolled when he threw himself on the ground. The others had remained standing for fear they would spill the food. * * * * * “Oh, Hicks. Hicksy, the ration party’s come.” Pugh shook Hicks from his slumber. “What.... The ration party? Whatta they got?” “That’s jis’ what I’m goin’ to see. Hurry up or the rest of these hogs’ll eat it all up on us.” They walked quickly toward the place where a queue of men had formed. “Hurry up, you guys. Bring your canteen cups. Sergeant-major coffee.” It was a glorious moment. “Is it hot?” asked Hicks. “Hot as blazes.”