ray implement
or nick-nack, hanging it up on a wall or placing it carefully aside.

"There's a tragedy," the battalion commander told me. "That man is mayor
of this town. He was forced to flee with the rest of the civilians. He
returned to-day to look over the ruins. This is his house we occupy. I
explained that much of it is as we found it, but that we undoubtedly
have broken some things. I could see that every broken chair and window
and plate meant a heart throb to him, but he only looked up at me with
his wrinkled old face and smiled as he said, 'It is all right, Monsieur.
I understand. _C'est la guerre._'"

The old man opened one of his barn doors, revealing a floor littered
with straw and a fringe of hobnailed American boots. A night-working
detail was asleep in blankets. A sleepy voice growled out something
about closing the door again and the old man with a polite,
"_Pardonnez-moi, messieurs_," swung the wooden portal softly shut. His
home--his house--his barn--his straw--_c'est la guerre_.

An evening meal of "corn willy" served on some of the Mayor's remaining
chinaware, was concluded by a final course of fresh spring onions. These
came from the Mayor's own garden just outside the door. As the cook
affirmed, it was no difficulty to gather them.

"Every night Germans drop shells in the garden," he said. "I don't even
have to pull 'em. Just go out in the morning and pick 'em up off the
ground."

I spent part of the night in gun pits along the road side, bordering the
town. This particular battery of heavies was engaged on a night long
programme of interdiction fire laid down with irregular intensity on
cross roads and communication points in the enemy's back areas. Under
screens of camouflage netting, these howitzers with mottled bores
squatting frog-like on their carriages, intermittently vomited flame,
red, green and orange. The detonations were ear-splitting and cannoneers
relieved the recurring shocks by clapping their hands to the sides of
their head and balancing on the toes each time the lanyard was pulled.

Infantry reserves were swinging along in the road directly in back of
the guns. They were moving up to forward positions and they sang in an
undertone as they moved in open order.

"Glor--ree--us, Glor--ree--us!
One keg of beer for the four of us.
Glory be to Mike there are no more of us,
For four of us can drink it all alone."

Some of these marchers would come during an int