The men sleep in the barns. The senior officers sleep in a
stone-floored boudoir of their own. The juniors sleep where they can,
and experience little difficulty in accomplishing the feat. A hard
day's marching and a truss of straw--these two combined form an
irresistible inducement to slumber.
Only a few miles away big guns thunder until the building shakes.
To-morrow a select party of officers is to pay a visit to the
trenches. Thereafter our whole flock is to go, in its official
capacity. The War is with us at last. Early this morning a Zeppelin
rose into view on the skyline. Shell fire pursued it, and it sank
again--rumour says in the British lines. Rumour is our only war
correspondent at present. It is far easier to follow the course of
events from home, where newspapers are more plentiful than here.
But the grim realities of war are coming home to us. Outside this farm
stands a tall tree. Not many months ago a party of Uhlans arrived
here, bringing with them a wounded British prisoner. They crucified
him to that self-same tree, and stood round him till he died. He was a
long time dying.
Some of us had not heard of Uhlans before. These have now noted the
name, for future reference--and action.
XV
IN THE TRENCHES--AN OFF-DAY
This town is under constant shell fire. It goes on day after day:
it has been going on for months.
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