It was ten in the morning, and a regular November morning, grey, cold, and damp, but as a matter of fact no one took much notice of the weather. All day long we were inside the infamous little farm that we had nicknamed "Taboo Farm" because, in the midst of a plain ravaged by shells, it was the only building that had remained intact. Two or three "saucepans" had fallen in the farmyard, shattering all the windows, but that was all. We replaced the window-panes by planks of wood and mattresses and lived in a little cavern-like room, sitting round a cracked stove, in which we only burned wood. As to showing our faces outside, that was not good enough. In the first place there was the mud, the terrible "polder mud," slimy, deep, and clinging. After walking ten steps, one came back with enormous cakes of about twenty pounds on each foot. And then there were the petroleum tanks, the two enormous tanks over yonder in the background of the Yser. They dominated the whole region in its autumn bareness and were like two sentinels of Death. For the last month they had been riddled by the firing, and the petroleum had flamed up. Oh, the fine flames, lighting up with a glorious fire the Dixmude victory! These tanks were now full of holes like sieves. One of them had given way and fallen in, but the other one was still standing and made an admirable observation-post for the enemy's artillery, so that we did not care to attract their terrible "saucepans" in the direction of "Taboo Farm." At noon, our Chief had not returned. We waited luncheon until one o'clock and then we decided not to wait any longer. The inevitable soup, made of preserved peas, and the pneumatic-tyre beefsteak disgusted me a little more than usual. I was feeling very anxious about the Captain. I made enquiries two or three times at the battery, but the same reply came each time: "We have not seen him since this morning, when he came to give the command of the battery over to the Lieutenant." Towards three in the afternoon, the door was opened noisily and in he walked. He looked tired out, but his eyes were feverishly bright. He was all be-starred with mud and, half joyfully, half wearily, in a way not at all like himself, he sank on to a chair. "Well, I always said so," he remarked. "There is no footbridge, but, my boys, it came very near there being no Captain either." ... "What happened? Tell us!" we all begged, crowding round him. "Give me a beefsteak first. I am dying of hunger. And some coffee, too, for I am parched with thirst." He then took his boots off, pitching one to the right and the other to the left, and his gaiters anywhere.