tor.
They had already risen and were trying to boil a kettle on the ashes of
last night's fire. It was not an inviting scene, by any means, but he
pushed open the door, and started in the search for food.

The room in which he found them was a typical French kitchen, with a
dirty grey ceiling, walls, and stone floor. The furniture consisted of a
table, a couple of forms, and a chair or two. Otherwise there was
absolutely no attempt at either comfort or adornment. Ransacking a dirty
cupboard, the Subaltern drew forth in triumph a promising-looking
bottle, and having pulled the cork, smelt at the contents with caution.
It contained a curious sort of liquor, apparently home made, which saved
their lives that morning. Then the Doctor, after many amusing efforts to
clean himself in a bucket, went off to the improvised hospital that had
been set up in the village.

The early part of the morning passed peacefully enough; but the
bombardment was renewed at about seven o'clock, and was followed by a
hasty evacuation of the village to reinforce the front line. The
Captain's Company, however, and one other, were ordered to stand by in
reserve, but to be prepared to move at a moment's notice. The
bombardment rolled on as usual for about an hour. Then came a tremendous
crash, which made every wall and roof tremble, and gave warning that
something worse than ordinary had happened.

Everybody rushed into the street, but there was no longer a square. One
of the "Jack Johnsons" had alighted in the centre of it. The first
glance at the scene disclosed the fact that the fountain had been blown
sky high, and the cobbles torn up like pebbles, but it was not until
afterwards that one realised that there had been men in that square.
None was left alive in it now. One poor fellow had been struck by a
piece of shell and had died before his head had crashed against the
ground. The colour of the dead face reminded the Subaltern hauntingly of
the grey walls of the kitchen. Fortunately, the eyes were closed, but
the horror of the thing--the shattered skull, the protruding,
blood-smeared brains, bit into the Subaltern's soul. He gazed at it for
a moment, spellbound, and then turned in towards the kitchen, feeling
broken and humiliated.

"We must get them into better shelter than this," said the Captain.
"That might happen again."

The owners of the house came out to meet them. The old man and his wife
seemed strangely unperturbed by the noise