order that "they might receive the blessing of the good God"
before starting on the long journey to the hospital behind the lines.

Outside the prison camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French
soldiers learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered
how the Germans cared to listen to the martial music of the men of
France, one and all so sure of the ultimate victory of their country.
Half a kilometre further on, a series of mock trenches had been
made where the men were practising the throwing of hand
grenades. Every available inch of space behind the French lines is
made to serve some useful purpose.

I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just
now to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the
men who have medals are almost ashamed since they know that
nearly all their comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a
hero in one's own family. One of the men in our hospital at
Royaumont had been in the trenches during an attack. A grenade
thrown by one of the French soldiers struck the parapet and
rebounded amongst the men. With that rapidity of thought which is
part of the French character, Jules sat on the grenade and
extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was decorated by the
French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I found him
sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I enquired why he
looked so glum. "Well, Mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my
wife to tell her of my new honour and see what she says: 'My dear
Jules, We are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand
grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit
down at home!!!'"