This one was a model village, snug in
the fields, and dwindling daily. The German shells are dropping there
every day. In the course of another six months if the fronts of the
contending armies do not change, that village will be a litter of red
bricks and unpeopled ruins. As it is the women, children and old men
still remain in the place and carry on their usual labours with the
greatest fortitude and patience. The village children sell percussion
caps of German shells for half a franc each, but if the shell (p. 238)
has killed any of the natives when it exploded, the cap will not be
sold for less than thirty sous. But the sum is not too dear for a
nose-cap with a history.
There are a number of soldiers buried in the graveyard of this place.
At one corner four different crosses bear the following names: Anatole
Series, Private O'Shea, Corporal Smith and under the symbol of the
Christian religion lies one who came from sunny heathen climes to help
the Christian in his wars. His name is Jaighandthakur, a soldier of
the Bengal Mountain Battery.
It was while here that Bill complained of the scanty allowance of his
rations to an officer, when plum pudding was served at dinner.
"Me and Stoner 'as got 'ardly nuffink," Bill said.
"How much have you got?" asked the officer.
"You could 'ardly see it, it's so small," said Bill. "But now it's all
gone."
"Gone?"
"A fly flew away with my portion, and Stoner's 'as fallen through the
neck of 'is waterbottle," said Bill.
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