o to?" During the winter the French occupied the trenches
nearer her home; her husband fought there, but the French have gone
further south now and our men occupy their place in dug-out and trench
but not in the woman's heart. "The English soldiers have come and (p. 290)
my husband had to go away," she says. "He went south beyond Souchez,
and now he's dead."

The woman, we learned, used to visit her husband in his dug-out and
bring him coffee for breakfast and soup for dinner; this in winter
when the slush in the trenches reached the waist and when soldiers
were carried out daily suffering from frostbite.

A woman sells _cafe noir_ near Cuinchy Brewery in a jumble of bricks
that was once her home. Once it was _cafe au lait_ and it cost four
sous a cup, she only charges three sous now since her cow got shot in
the stomach outside her ramshackle _estaminet_. Along with a few mates
I was in the place two months ago and a bullet entered the door and
smashed the coffee pot; the woman now makes coffee in a biscuit tin.

The road from our billet to the firing line is as uncomfortable as a
road under shell fire can be, but what time we went that way nightly
as working parties, we met scores of women carrying furniture away
from a deserted village behind the trenches. The French military
authorities forbade civilians to live there and drove them back to
villages that were free from danger. But nightly they came back,
contrary to orders, and carried away property to their temporary (p. 291)
homes. Sometimes, I suppose they took goods that were not entirely
their own, but at what risk! One or two got killed nightly and many
were wounded. However, they still persisted in coming back and
carrying away beds, tables, mirrors and chairs in all sorts of queer
conveyances, barrows, perambulators and light spring-carts drawn by
strong intelligent dogs.

"They are great women, the women of France," as Bill Teake remarks.

CHAPTER XXI (p. 292)

IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT

"What do you do with your rifle, son?" I clean it every day,
And rub it with an oily rag to keep the rust away;
I slope, present and port the thing when sweating on parade.
I strop my razor on the sling; the bayonet stand is made
For me to hang my mirror on. I often use it, too,
As handle for the dixie, sir, and lug around the stew.
"But did you ever fire it, son?" Just once, but never m