"No"--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff. "No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they are drunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than all that--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be it repairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures or peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do the big things as though they were small, the small things as though they were big! "Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol duty together. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were in hot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery. "'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the captain. 'Who was leading, and who first cut the German barbed wire?' "'Dubois.' "'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.' "'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it will give his clientele to see him come back decorated.' "The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the medal. "I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the same superiority over other saints, as the man who does his military service has over those who are exempt.' But it's only the soldiers who really understand that, and when they say _On les aura_, it means something more from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, or a reporter in his newspaper." During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village sanctuary. A shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged the altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bell split into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by some loving hand, and stood just inside the doorway. St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, and of St. Roch there remained but one foot and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation of peace and piety reigned everywhere. From the confessional rose the murmur of voices, and the improvised altar was literally buried beneath garlands of roses. In what had once been a chapel, a soldier now sat writing. His note books were spread before him on a table, a telephone was at his elbow. Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the "_Bureau de la 22e_." An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we approached. "Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's your man to-day?" "Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care of him at your hospital."